


A Strange's Gift

by Imjohnlocked87, RRipley



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry John Watson, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecure Everett Ross, Insecure Stephen Strange, Love, M/M, Multiverse, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Second Chances, Time Travel Fix-It, Weddings, kidnapped Everett Ross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22032082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRipley/pseuds/RRipley
Summary: The night of John's wedding with Mary, Sherlock meets a strange character who asks him what he would give to be able to go back in time and tell John he loves him.Three months later, Strange reappeared to ask Sherlock and John to help the Avengers in a baffling disappearance case, that will make Everett to face his feelings for Stephen and will allow Lestrade to see Mycroft in a different way.
Relationships: Everett Ross & Stephen Strange, Everett Ross/Stephen Strange, Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 42
Kudos: 136





	1. In due time

Sherlock felt unable to stand it a second more. Everyone around him was laughing, dancing, chatting, having a great time… But he… he was dying inside. Too many hours pretending to be happy for John, trying to convince himself Mary was who John deserved, she could make him happy, that John wasn't gay, that John deserved her …

He smirked to two or three known faces, got out from the wedding hall, came to the cloakroom, got his Belstaff coat, and went out of the building.

For a moment, he allowed himself to dream about John realizing he left the hall, running after him, stopping him, making him turn around, and confessing that he just realized his mistake and that his true love was Sherlock. He would solve it with Mary tomorrow because it was time for them to go back to Baker Street to live their love.

But it didn't happen. John didn't notice he left the hall. In fact, nobody noticed he wasn't there. A strangely familiar feeling of loneliness engulfed him, the same sense of not belonging anywhere, to any group, to anyone he had felt since he was a boy.

The cold of the night hit him in the face, but Sherlock didn't feel it. He took on his Belstaff, thinking about how ironic it was that the only companion that hadn't abandoned him was his coat as he fought the dark craving sensation growing inside him.

He turned around to look at the outside of the hall. When he was sure nobody could see him, he dropped to his knees on the ground and cried, small sobs at first that gradually turned into the agonizing cries of a broken heart.

He covered his mouth with both hands, trying to stifle the sobs that shook his whole body, trying to put himself together, but the pain was too intense, too dense, too real to allow him to stop crying.

Instead, he threw his head back and howled in grief and sorrow, asking a God he didn't believe in why he allowed that, why had he been punished in such a way when his only goal when he faked his own death was saving John's life.

He always thought that "broken heart" was only an expression, but now he knew it was real. He knew the exact moment it happened: when he saw Mary in front of John at the restaurant the day he returned.

He thought about disappearing again, letting John keep on with his new life, but he had lost so many opportunities in the past…. And maybe, only maybe, he arrived on time to get John back, to see John standing back and leaving the woman alone in the table because his true love came back from the dead.

And so, he did the only he could do: try as much as possible to make John happy. Even if it meant dying a little every time he saw them together, every time John kissed Mary as Sherlock dreamed of being kissed by him, every time he was left alone in Baker Street knowing that his love was with Mary.

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his forehead on the ground, indifferent to the cold, the loneliness, and the night, just aware that the love of his life had chosen someone else to share his life with.

A black car came rolling up slowly until it stopped behind the detective. The door opened, and a shadow approached Sherlock.

"Go away," ordered the detective without lifting his head from the ground.

"Your network of... homeless," Mycroft said, grimacing at the word "contacted me. Word has gotten out that you're here, alone. Criminals organizing raids to come after you".

"I don't care," muttered Sherlock without looking at his brother. It was true. Killing him now would be an act of mercy.

"Come on, Sherlock," grunted Mycroft, trying to grab his brother's arm, but the detective easily got rid of him. "God, look at you. I told you hundreds of times. Caring is not an advantage and love…"

"It's a chemical defect. I know. You are always repeating it. Maybe I'm defective. Your little brother is stupid and defective. You must be so ashamed of me,…".

Mycroft looked back at the car and made a gesture with his head.

"If any of your minions dare to touch me, I'll break their necks."

The British Government pursed his lips and briefly shook his head, so the men that just got out of the car remained.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock! You are in danger!".

"I told you. I don't care. Maybe I should have died two years ago".

"Don't talk nonsense. There's more life after John Watson".

Sherlock whined in pain.

"Leave me alone, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, please…"

"Go! Now!"

Mycroft hesitated. If he left Sherlock there, he would indeed be killed soon. But he knew his brother. If he didn't want to go with him, he wouldn't do it. He gestured to sit at his side.

"I said go," repeated Sherlock, still hiding his face to the ground.

Mycroft sighed.

"Please, call me if you need me," he said and got back in the car, which drove away quietly.

Sherlock waited a bit, trying to clear his mind.

" _We would never do that to John Watson."_

The words he said a few hours ago to Major James Sholto reverberated in his head. There was a proper day to die.

But not today.

He couldn't do that to John, not again, not on his wedding day. He rolled until he laid on his side, sobbing quietly, the weight of grief barely allowing him to breathe.

" _We would never do that to John Watson."_

He stood slowly, wiped away the tears, and, with hesitant steps, walked to the nearest street when he could take a cab.

Maybe he couldn't make disappear the sorrow, but he knew how to deal with it.

Thirty minutes later, Sherlock found himself in an alley he never thought to set foot in again.

However, there was a time when that alleyway became almost his home, and its inhabitants were practically his family. Until he met Lestrade, and the DI helped him to put it all behind him.

He sat on a wall ledge. It wouldn't take long for him to get there. And he came five minutes later, a smirk on his face.

Sherlock loathed himself. He knew the reason for that smirk. When Sherlock bought him drugs for the last time, the dealer assured there was never the last time. "For me it is," had answered the detective, confident. Meeting John helped him to keep his word. 

Suddenly, a strangle golden circle appeared in the ground, under his feet, and started to spin, slowly at first, gradually accelerating, sending golden sparks around it, until a kind of black hole opened under him and the ground absorbed him.

He found himself sat on a chair in what seemed an ancient living room, the walls covered with shelves full of old books.

Sat in front of him, there was a man, wearing a blue robe and a red cloak with a strange medallion hanging from his neck.

Sherlock looked at him, gaped. 

Because looking at the man, he felt as if he was looking at himself in the mirror; the only difference the hair, straight instead of curled.

"Don't try to deduce me. Your abilities are worthless here. Tea?" asked the man, his voice a deep rumble, exactly like his.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Let's say I'm your Santa."

"It's not Christmas."

"You have a lot of Christmas around the year. A quadruple murder, and it's Christmas Eve for you. This makes no difference. Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, looking at the man. He was right; he couldn't deduce him. A cup of tea appeared in his right hand. 

"Where are we? Why have you brought me here?"

"We are at 177A Bleecker Street, in New York".

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know. I brought you here to prevent you from being a complete idiot. Again".

Sherlock got up from the chair.

"You can hang up your costume and tell Mycroft to go to hell."

"Mycroft? Oh, your brother. This has nothing to do with him".

"I don't know what kind of trick is this, but…"

"What would you give to be with John now?"

Sherlock froze.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Yes, you do. You look for the dealer because you can't stand not being with John".

Sherlock shook his head.

"This is none of your business."

"You love him."

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny his feelings, as he was used to doing, to tell that hellish man that he was wrong, that he didn't love John or wasn't dying for him, to lie to himself as he had been doing until now, but he couldn't.

He sat again and lowered his head, a tear rolling down his cheek.

"You love him since the first moment you met him."

"Shut up," Sherlock sobbed, his heart breaking into more pieces listening to the truth, blinking to conceal the tears.

"But you weren't brave enough to admit it. _Married to your work_... And when you tried to confess your love to him, it was too late".

Sherlock closed his eyes, covered them with his hand, and cried, his shoulders shaking, astonished of crying like a little boy in front of a man he didn't now. Somehow, in his presence, he couldn't control his emotions. 

He managed to calm himself after some minutes of silent crying and looked at the man's eyes. 

"Shut up! Take me home NOW".

"I'm giving you the chance to fix it."

Sherlock snorted.

"Sure. John is just married, he is waiting for a baby, and you will fix it. You're delusional".

"What would you do if you had the opportunity to go back on time?"

"I'm tired of this game."

"I thought the game was never over."

"For me, it is."

"What would you do?" the man repeated.

Sherlock was confused. The man in front of him seemed to know his most hidden secrets, things he had never confessed to anyone, not even to himself. Although he didn't want to admit it, a part of him wished to believe him, that it was possible to go back, fix everything where it broke down, and change everything.

But, above all, he was a rational man. And his mind knew it was not wise to cling that impossible dream. 

He thought about what Mycroft would say if he listened to his brain right now.

"That's nonsense, that's impossible."

"But, what if it wasn't?"

"It isn't."

"What would you give for the chance of being in a relationship with John now?"

"Everything," whispered Sherlock.

"So be it," said the man.

He began to make complicated hand gestures, and the medallion on his chest opened, emitting a bright green light. Two green circles formed by ancient symbols appeared around his wrists, and he watched Sherlock.

"Ready?"

"What for?"

"You're starting to remind me of Anderson."

Sherlock threw him the gaze that made the Yarders shiver with fear, but the man didn't get impressed. 

"I'll make you travel back in time, but you'll have to make the right decision."

"Sure," he sneered.

Sherlock felt his body dissolving and being absorbed by a powerful suction force again.

He blinked. He was at Baker Street again. In his living room, he sat in his armchair, next to the fireplace.

Alone.

It had only been a dream. Or a vision caused by drugs. He had no idea how he got there. Mycroft's men, evidently.

Sherlock didn't want to check his forearm. But he didn't feel any longer the pain. He felt relieved.

But he hated himself. Not only for the drugs but for having been so stupid to…

Suddenly he was panting, leaning on the wall, giggling.

"That was ridiculous," John said, giggling madly at his side. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock heard himself saying, chuckling.

"Yeah, it wasn't just me. Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It's a long shot anyway".

"So, what were we doing there?"

"Passing the time, proving a point."

"What point?"

"You."

And then, Sherlock did what he was dying to do since the very first moment he met John at the lab, what he should have done at Angelo's if he hadn't been so scared for falling in love at first sight with the doctor.

He cupped John's face between his hands, scared, insecure, and hopeful, and softly kissed the doctor's lips.

John stiffened, and, for a second, Sherlock was afraid he was to slam him against the wall. Instead, John kissed him back, softly, merely rubbing his lips, both caressing each other's lips, exploring them. John, grabbing Sherlock by his nape, kissed him fiercely, poking his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth, an electric current running through the detective's body, so potent that he felt himself near to faint, he closed his eyes, and they kissed, and kissed and kissed…

"Hey, save something for tonight!" Sherlock heard Lestrade shouting.

The detective kept his eyes closed. He felt dizzy, exhilarated, and he didn't want the dream to end. Kissing John had felt so great…

"Sherlock," John's voice said.

No, he wouldn't open his eyes. He wanted to treasure that moment forever. 

"Sherlock," there was a hint of worry in the doctor's voice, "Sherlock?"

John would be so disappointed when he discovered he retook drugs…

"Give him a blanket, he is in shock," Molly said in a mocked tone.

"Sherlock, love, open your eyes. You are scaring me".

 _Love_. John just called him love. He complied and slowly opened his eyes. Blushing, he had to grab John's arms because his legs weren't able to support him.

He was in the church, again, next to John. But he wasn't the best man.

He was the groom.

John was at his side, looking at him with a worried expression, his fingers around his wrist to check his pulse.

"Are you ok?" asked the doctor.

Sherlock nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again.

"Please, tell me you haven't been through the whole ceremony in your Mental Palace, and we have to repeat it," mocked John.

Sherlock laughed, tears filling his eyes.

"No, I…, I'm a bit overwhelmed."

John frowned.

"Do you have second thoughts about this?"

The detective shook his head.

"No, it's because I'm the luckiest man in the world."

Sherlock smiled, and John blushed.

Mycroft hawked. Sherlock laughed openly.

"Sentiment, Mycroft. You should try it some times," he said and heard John giggling.

Sherlock turned to the back of the church. The man with the red cloak was looking at him and nodded a bit, smirking.

"Give me a second," asked Sherlock, and, to the surprised gaze of those present, he run down the aisle towards the door and left the church when the man was waiting for him.

"I don't know how you managed to do this. I don't even know if this is real. But I want to thank you. Although when it's midnight, I'll be alone in Baker Street again".

"Who do you think I am? Your fairy godmother?"

"Kind of. By the way, I don't know your name".

"Strange, Dr. Stephen Strange."

"Why did you do that? What do you want in return?"

"Because you deserved to be happy. And loved. Because although you've been ranting so much about love, you really love John Watson. And about what I want, you'll know it in due course".

"in due course?"

"I know. Stark would agree with you".

"Stark?"

"Go inside. Your husband it's waiting for you. And don't mess it up. There will be no more second chances.

"I don't need any other second chance."

Strange smiled.

"One last question," said Sherlock.

"Questions' time is over. Stop thinking and start feeling".

"But…"

"You just got married and left your husband alone in front of the altar. He must be fuming or scared now."

"Yeap."

"Go"

Sherlock ran inside the church again. Strange was right. John's worried anger was palpable.

"Don't be grumpy," said Sherlock, kissing him again. "It's our wedding day."

"It will be our divorce day if you run from the church again. What were you doing?"

"You'll know in due course."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Ok, but don't go again."

"I'll never run away again. I love you, John".

"I love you, Sherlock."

And they entered the wedding hall to listen to Mycroft and Greg's best man's speech. 


	2. This is why you helped me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Strange requests Sherlock and John's help for a case.

Sherlock blinked in the darkness and shivered. He must fall asleep while thinking. The fire had been out for hours, and the living room was frozen. The detective stood from the couch and went to the kitchen, still lost in resolving the complicated case he was dealing with, three murders at close range, with no connection between the victims that he could have found out about.

He made tea, taking care not to make any noise. John was a very light sleeper, and they went to bed late, chasing one of the suspects. It had been exhausting, but the man provided them with a vital clue to solve the case.

Leaning against the counter, he drank slowly, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar hiss and turned around. Stephen Strange was sitting at the table, looking through the microscope.

It had been three months since their wedding, and Sherlock kept fearing it could turn out to be a dream at any moment, from which he would wake up and alone at Baker Street.

But that never happened. Instead, Sherlock woke each morning, cuddled to John. He would never suspect he liked to cuddle, but hugging John's body every night made him feel safe and alive, both tired and happy after slowly and tenderly making love. His pattern sleeps improved since the wedding because falling asleep in John's arms was fantastic.

He chuckled. The Supreme Sorcerer looked at him, raising his gaze from the microscope. He smiled as he could read Sherlock's mind.

"May I have a coffee?" he asked.

"Coffee?"

"Believe it or not, I am as human as you are, and I wouldn't mind having a big black coffee cup. With milk. No sugar".

"Exactly as John."

Stephen nodded.

They both sipped their drinks in silence.

"I'm guessing this isn't a courtesy visit."

"No, I'm here to collect the favor you owe me."

"And what do you want?"

"Your first son," his deep and threatening voice rumbled through the kitchen.

Seconds later, he burst in laughs, pointing at Sherlock's shocked face.

"I'm sorry," Stephen bubbled between laughs, raising his hands in a sign of apology. "I couldn't help it. You should have seen your face".

"Very funny," muttered Sherlock, angry.

"Sorry again. I know John, and you are thinking of adopting a child, and I couldn't help it".

"How…? Never mind," Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He wasn't used to people deducing him, "So?"

"I need your help to find someone."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh out loud, but looking at Strange's pissed off face, he held himself.

"You can't be serious. You…are a sorcerer or whatever you call yourself. Why would you need my help?"

Strange moved his head from side to side.

"What is wrong?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It seems I can deduce you here in my world."

"This is my world, also," Strange stirred and frowned when his cloak moved from his back, moved towards the detective, and, standing next to him, motioned its fabric like it was folding his arms across his chest, mirroring Sherlock's gesture.

"Now you take his side?" Stephen asked, upset.

The cloak ignored him, fascinated with Sherlock, intently looking at it, not puzzled or scared, as people used to, but with genuine scientific curiosity, so it adopted a smug air. Sherlock touched the fabric, and the cloak shivered as if the detective had tickled it.

"I need both John's and your help."

"Why?"

Strange snapped a picture and laid it out for the detective. Sherlock looked at the photograph and gasped. The man in it was John. He was wearing a blue suit and red tie instead of his usual jumpers and was combed backward, but otherwise, it was undoubtedly, John.

"What the hell kind of joke is this?"

"This is not your John Watson. This is Everet Ross. He is a CIA operative. Before joining the CIA, he was enrolled in the United States Air Force".

"Are you kidding? Forget that".

"Two weeks ago, he began investigating an anomaly in the space-time continuum. Since then, we have not heard from him again."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking at the sorcerer.

"So, this is why you helped me."

Strange shook his head. Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Finally, he nodded slightly. 

"You... reminded me a lot, chasing an unrequited love, suffering in silence, pretending everything was alright when your heart was breaking into pieces. I know how it is. So I thought if I gave you a second chance...".

"You'll have your own one."

Stephen pursed his lips. Sherlock could see he was suffering. The detective knew too well what it was like love without being reciprocated.

"You said you needed my help and John's. Why?"

"In two days, an important meeting will take place. Everett is essential to the success of the negotiation. Without him, they will not negotiate and... I thought..."

"John could replace him." Strange rolled his eyes precisely as Sherlock used to do.

"He wouldn't be in danger. And he'll only have to do it if we don't find Everett first."

Sherlock bit his lower lip.

"I can't tell him the truth about... you know, your trick":

"First, I don't do tricks. I'm a sorcerer, not a cheap carnival wizard. Second, you don't have to say anything to him, but you have a new case. We don't have much time. We have to go to New York. Wake up, John."

"Are you always so bossy?"

"If you think I'm bossy, wait to meet Tony," he stood up. "Fifteen minutes."

Sherlock entered the bedroom and shook John a bit. The doctor grunted and turned to the other side.

"John, we have to go."

"What… Where?"

"New York. A new case."

"Are you mad? We already have a case.

"We go in fifteen minutes."

"At what time is the flight?"

"No flight. We… hmmm. Well, you better see it".

John rubbed his eyes and jumped from the bed. He was accustomed to Sherlock waking him up to chase suspects in the middle of his sleep, so ten minutes after, he was in the kitchen, ready to go.

He gaped, looking at Dr. Strange.

"Doc... Doc... Doctor Strange?" he stammered.

Stephen smirked and nodded briefly.

"You know him?" asked Sherlock, confused.

"Do I know him?" It's Dr. Strange. Of the Avengers!" John shook his hand with both of his, absolutely deluded. "I'm Dr. John Watson, but call me John".

"Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson."

"I used to be a trauma surgeon."

"I used to be a neurosurgeon."

Both chuckled, and Sherlock frowned, feeling the chemistry established immediately between the two of them.

"I need your help in a case, with the Avengers. I'll set a portal, and we'll move to New York in seconds".

John smiled incredulously.

"You need our help? You're the Sorcerer Supreme".

Doctor Strange blushed. His heart turned over when John came into the room. He closed his eyes and repeated himself several times that the man in front of him was not Everett until he was convinced. But it wasn't easy, the personality, the strength, everything was the same. Everything but the affection with which John looked at Sherlock. Everett would never look at him like that.

Sherlock gave the photograph to John, who looked at it, amused, wondering what joke it was.

"It's not you," said the detective. 

"That man is Everet Ross. As I told your husband, he was studying a disturbance in the space-time continuum when he disappeared. We need, in case he doesn't show up for two days, for you to pose as him for twenty-four hours."

"A disturbance in the space-time continuum?" "

Yes, Bruce is studying it."

"Bruce? Bruce Banner? God! Sorry, I must look like an idiot, but I can't believe it. Sherlock! It's the Avengers!"

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"Do you know them?"

"You  _ really  _ don't know who we are?" though Doctor Strange already knew it, it was difficult for him to believe it.

He opened his mouth to ask, but John dissuaded him with a gesture.

"A long story. He doesn't even know who James Bond is... well, he doesn't even know that the earth revolves around the sun..."

"John!"

Stephen laughed willingly.

"Welcome to the multiverse, Mr. Holmes. John, we'll explain everything at Avengers facilities in upstate New York," John seemed to have a fit at these words "remember you can back out at any time."

"John, you are under no obligation to do so."

"Obligation? Obligation? Sherlock, it's the Avengers!. You don't understand! You have no idea what it means to work with them. To know them!" he put his hands to his head, and the detective couldn't help but smile. John looked like a kid about to go see Santa Claus. "Ironman, Spiderman... Wow!"

"Time to go," announced Strange, chuckling.

He circularly motioned his hands, and with a hiss, a portal opened in their kitchen through which the New Avengers facility was visible.

John held himself upright, threw his shoulders back in a military manner, and crossed the portal, followed by Doctor Strange. Sherlock took his coat and his scarf and followed them.

On the other side, Jonh laughed, shocked. They were in the Avengers' headquarters! He looked at Doctor Strange and Sherlock and laughed even more. The sorcerer and the detective looked at each other, puzzled.

"You should see you both. You are like a Sherlock colored version, he with his Belstaff and you with your cloak. I should take a picture".

Sherlock pursed his lips. Why was John so... charming with Strange?

"Stop saying nonsense. We don't look anything alike," he sneered.

John and Strange burst out laughing, making Sherlock's mood even worse. The cloak tapped him on the shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him, which Sherlock rejected with a slap.

"Let's go, the sooner we find him, the sooner we get home."

"When we're done, we can stay in New York for a few days and go sightseeing. I'm sure Stephen wouldn't mind guiding us." teased John, who had realized just how jealous Sherlock was getting.

"It would be a pleasure," Strange winked at the doctor.

"Not a chance," snarled the detective. 

*********

Everet Ross blinked, trying to wake up from the stupor he was in. He squeezed his eyes. He was dizzy and had a terrible headache. He tried to put his hand to the back of his head, but he couldn't.

Everett opened his eyes. He was in a dark warehouse, with only a little light coming through the metal walls' cracks. It smelled of saltpeter, and he could hear the seagulls and the sound of cranes. The agent tried to move again but could not. He was sitting in an armchair, his arms tied to his back and gagged. The pain in the back of his neck seemed to be getting worse.

Amid the mist, he remembered that mysterious character who asked him to go with him. At his refusal, he threw himself at him. They struggled and, after an intense pain in the back of his neck, he fainted.

"John," whispered a deep voice beside him.

He blinked to get used to the darkness. The stranger's features became visible little by little, and, to the surprise of the CIA agent, familiar: sharpened cheekbones, prominent lips, piercing eyes...

"Strange, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry I hit you, John."

The man turned on a small light that forced him to blink again. He watched him in detail. Yes, it was Stephen, no doubt, but... when he had grown his hair long... And since when did he wear a black coat?"

"Who's John?"

The dark Stephen bent down in front of him and stared at him with a worried look. Then he stood and surrounded him to observe the wound on the back of his neck. Everett hissed as he brushed his fingers against it, feeling it.

"It is unlikely that the blow has given you amnesia."

"I don't have amnesia."

"Then what is it, John?"

"I'm not John."

"Stop saying that. You're John H. Watson. Physician, Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers.

"My name is Everett K. Ross, I was in the United States Air Force, and now I'm a CIA agent.

The stranger looked at him with bulging eyes.

"What the hell are you saying? What have they done to you?"

"My name is Everett K. Ross, I was in the United States Air Force, and now I'm a CIA agent."

"Stop saying that!" bellowed the stranger, his eyes wide open. He seemed terrified. "You are John H. Watson. Doctor, Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers, and you solve cases with me."

"And who are you?"

"John, it's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

Everett frowned.

"I don't know any Sherlock Holmes," he said harshly. Although that name... rang a bell in his brain...

Sherlock scrutinized him with his eyes.

"It was Mary, wasn't it? She's forced you to forget about me. She never liked me, ever."

"Who's Mary?"

Sherlock knelt beside him again and put his hand to Everet's cheek intending to stroke him, but Everet shook his head with an abrupt gesture. A chill ran down the CIA agent's back. This Sherlock Holmes was watching him with his eyes wide open, but his gaze was out of focus as if he were in a kind of trance. His lost gaze was cold, but he could also sense a great sadness. He was worried by that John Watson, whose name he kept repeating, anguished because something happened to him.

Suddenly a door burst open, and the light almost blinded them. A man stared at them, surprised and frightened. From his clothing, he was a longshoreman of the port. Hence the smell of saltpeter. Sherlock Holmes turned and looked at him, squinting.

"Who are you?" he asked, "What are you doing here? This is private property."

"Out," hissed Holmes, his voice steely and cold.

"I said what..."

He didn't have time to finish his sentence. Holmes approached him in two strides and shot him in the forehead at point-blank range. The shot muffled Everett's cry of "no!". Sherlock Holmes bent down to look at the body that had fallen to the ground with a sharp blow, the man's face still reflecting surprise.

"Idiot," he muttered.

He turned to him. Ross realized then what he noticed in the man's eyes as well. He had no pity. The man would kill anyone who got in his way. What's more, he wouldn't hesitate to kill him as soon as he realized that he was not John.

His mind worked fast. He needed to buy time and, above all, gain the man's trust. He only had one chance to get out alive.

"Ho... Holmes?" he asked hesitantly, pretending to wake up from a dream.

Holmes turned and threw himself on the floor, kneeling before him again, scrutinizing him with those eyes that seemed to pierce him. He swallowed, trembling hands running along Everett's face. The CIA agent almost felt pity for him.

"John?"

Everett nodded slowly. Holmes tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. John Watson. Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers. And I solve cases with you".

"What do I do?"

"We solve cases," Everett held his breath. From Holmes' expression, it was clear it was not the right answer. In those cold, sad eyes, mistrust shone through.

And then it came, like a flash. He remembered what the name sounded like. In the CIA headquarters, they often try to recruit a British agent or something similar: Sherlock Holmes. According to their reports, he could deduce everything about anyone at a glance. More than once, they set an operative to recruit him into the intelligence agency. Still, always, someone from the British Government whom they had not been able to identify, would blow the operation. But no, that man was not an agent. He was..., he was..., his assistant told him, he was...

"You're the only consulting detective in the world."

Bingo. The man's eyes relaxed, though not entirely. And Everett knew the only reason Holmes hadn't figured out it wasn't Watson was that the feeling blinded him.

He lowered his head.

"I'm sorry. I'm... confused. My head hurts," he looked as if by chance at the man's body.

"What happened?"

"No time for explanations. We have to get out of here. They want to take you away from me. Again."

"Untie me, and we'll go out from here."

Holmes smirked.

"It's clear you haven't fully recovered yet. Otherwise, you'd realize I know you still don't trust me. So until you get your memory back..."

Without further ado, he blindfolded him, picked him up, and, carrying him out fireman style, took him out.

******

Lestrade, Donovan, and five more officers burst into 221B. 

"The freak fled," stated an angry Donovan after running up and down the flat.

Greg put his hands in his hips.

When they received the first call that morning, ensuring Sherlock killed a man in the docks, he dismissed it. After the third call, he started worrying. Now at the empty flat, Lestrade was desperate.

"He took John with him. The witness was right," assured the sergeant, "Shit, we are late."

"Donovan, I know you are as happy as Sherlock when he has a quadruple murder case, but try to conceal it a bit."

"I knew this would happen" Sally moved around the living room, checking the scattered papers. "I knew the day when Sherlock Holmes finally showed his true face arrived. And this time, his bloody brother couldn't help him".

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, sergeant. Although I believe my brother capable of the greatest nonsense, he is not the author of these crimes, I assure you".

Donovan turned around as he heard Mycroft Holmes' voice from the door of the flat. The man looked at her with annoyance and disgust, his steely eyes fixed on her.

"Someday, sergeant, you will have to make up your mind to face your complexes and insecurities instead of blaming my little brother for your failures,' he looked sideways at Anderson,' in all spheres of your existence."

"Hey!" protested the forensic.

"Mr. Holmes," started Lestrade.

"Mycroft, please," he raised the right corner of his mouth in a gesture that intended to be a smile.

"Mycroft, nobody is accusing your brother," Donovan snorted, and both ignored her. "But we had several calls that we should check. Like you, I believe strongly in Sherlock's innocence, but as DI, I must investigate the facts".

"Of course. And rest assured, I will help you in any way I can".

Donovan frowned. Those two were flirting? Weirdly, but she could swear they were flirting.

"Sir," Anthea entered the flat, eyes glued in her phone, "we've located your brother."

"And where is he?"

"In New York."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"He can't be there. Surveillance devices indicated he was here half an hour ago, both he and Dr. Watson."

"I know, sir, but the locator doesn't fail. I've checked it twice. Sherlock Holmes is in New York.

"And what the hell did they miss there?"

Mycroft looked at Lestrade.

"Gregory... you don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you?"

Lestrade blushed a bit and shook his head.

"Gregory, I'll contact the FBI, see if my brother is indeed there. Then I'll get back to you. We can meet and share available information."

Greg nodded, puzzled, noting that what he would generally consider interference with his duties did not bother him at all.

"Of course, I am at your disposal... Mycroft."

"Great. See you later. And stop poking around in my brother's things," he ordered to the rest of the team. "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd set mouse traps among them to bother you," he smirked almost imperceptibly as if the idea amused him a lot. "Believe me. In case there was anything here you might be interested in, none of you are enough intellectually gifted as to be able to find it," he turned to Greg, "no offense."

Sherlock's older brother walked out the door, followed by Greg's gaze until Donovan cleared his throat.

"And now?"

Greg smiled.

"Let's go to the dock," he ordered, making sure his phone was working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're sorry it took so long for the next chapter. But once we are back in the multiverse, we will reach the end :-)


	3. Exotic Matter

"John, can you stop doing that?" asked Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"What? Enjoying all of this?"

Stephen burst out laughing, and with a determined air, he crossed the entrance of the Avengers' facility, crossed it, and walked into the hall where Stark, Steve, Clint, and Natasha were looking at a location hologram.

"You found him!" shouted Clint in excitement.

"No, he is not Everett," replied Stephen.

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but his gaze fell on Sherlock, then back to Stephen and back to the detective.

"What on earth...?"

"Great. Great. He has a brother. Great," ironized Stark, raising an eyebrow.

"He is not Everett, and he is not my brother." Stephen was pointing alternately at them with his head, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Doctor Watson will be filling in for Everett if necessary.

"Great. A doctor. How helpful" the sarcasm of Tony's tone made Sherlock step forward, but John stopped him with a gesture.

"I am an army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them," replied as he approached Tony.

"With that jumper, I doubt it very much."

"Look, you idiot, stop talking to him like this because of that stupid superiority complex to compensate for the feeling of being worth less than your father..."

"Sherlock!" John reproached him.

Tony turned to Sherlock slowly, clenching his fist, ready to activate the Bleeding Edge armor's fist and reduce that insolent know-it-all to ashes in an instant. He stepped forward.

"What did you say?" he hissed, threatening.

"I hate to repeat myself. You heard me the first time. I'm just warning you... Oh!" Sherlock, who was staring at Tony, smirked and turned to Stephen, "It's not superiority complex, he is…"

"Sherlock, that's enough," John cut him off, anticipating that the detective would say something that would make _a bit not good_ far out of hand. And he wasn't wrong, because Tony, watching the detective's gaze, turned red and stepped back. "I don't need you to defend me," grunted the doctor.

"Too many egos for too little space," sighed Steve, looking inquisitively at Sherlock, wondering what he had seen in Stark that had made the self-centered billionaire give up, something no one had ever done before. He looked down as the detective fixed his eyes on him, with the feeling that he was being scanned alive.

Natasha nodded. She smiled and approached Sherlock, amused by the resemblance to Stephen.

"Natasha Romanoff," she said, reaching out her hand, smiling seductively, "a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," replied the detective, shaking her hand. John narrowed his eyes, looking at the Russian spy.

"John Watson," said vehemently, standing between Natasha and the detective, with the clear intention of marking his territory, which made her smile mockingly.

"Nice to meet you. Surprising resemblance to Ross. You are as bad-tempered as him."

"This will end badly," Clint whispered to Steve, who bit his lips with a smile.

He looked at Stark, who remained, for once, in the background and approached John.

"Thank you for coming to help us," he said, shaking his hand.

The doctor's face, serious after the encounter with Stark, relaxed.

"I can't believe it," he smiled, "I am shaking Captain America's hand.

"Steve, please," he said, imitating Sherlock. John chuckled. "So, you were in the army?"

"Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan," answered John, making the military salute in the English way.

"Captain Steven Rogers, World War II" making it in the American way.

Both chuckled, and Tony rolled his eyes. That looked like an alumni meeting. Natasha came up to him.

"Don't worry; it's only for a few days until Ross shows up again."

"I don't give a shit if he shows up," snarled Tony.

Natasha looked at him in surprise. Stark cleared his throat, and she frowned. What made Tony so insecure?

"I mean, I don't see why they have to be here. We are the Avengers, for God's sake, we can manage perfectly well without the replicants".

Natasha laughed, watching as Clint had joined Steve and cheered on the detective and doctor. To be more precise, only the doctor was chatting away with them, because the detective was merely nodding when he felt they were talking about him. His gaze went from scrutinizing his interlocutors to walking around the room as if he were making a mental map of it.

"Well, I think we could cut the social crap and move on to..." Stark started.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Peter's cry, behind the door that had just opened on his left, startled everyone.

The teenager ran to the detective, staring at him with the same excitement John showed when he met the Avengers. He turned to John.

"Dr. Watson! Wow! I am an absolute fan of your blog. That's so cool! I love the way you write. It's fascinating! And the best part is the unsolved cases!"

John threw a smug look at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes, looking surprised at the teenager, who, standing in front of him, slightly opened his arms.

"Tell me what you can guess about me."

"Peter..." Tony reconvened. That would not end well.

"No, no, really! I have always wanted to do that. Come on. Tell me what you see. Deduce me."

The detective turned to the teenager, who was looking at him expectantly. Tony stepped forward. He didn't want Peter to be hurt.

Sherlock read in the teenager's eyes the suffering when he lost his parents, the years of crying for them, the loneliness, the rejection by others, the feeling of being different – and adolescence so similar to his own. He also read the admiration and devotion to Tony, the pride of belonging to the Avengers, of feeling that he had finally found his place.

The detective smirked. John prepared to cut him off, worried about what might come out of his mouth.

"The Avengers can be proud to have you. You're a precious member of the group. And Stark is very proud of you and admires you, though he will never tell you that."

It seemed for a moment that Peter was going to burst with pride. He turned to Tony, who looked at Sherlock gratefully for a second and got his pride back by looking at Peter.

"Don't believe a word this tinhorn detective tells you. Don't let it go to your head".

Peter chuckled.

The door through which Peter had appeared opened again, and Bruce Banner appeared, ignoring those assembled, and headed for Strange.

"We have a problem. Remember the spatial-temporal coordinates you asked me to lookup? There is indeed an anomaly."

Stephen pressed his lips.

"Shit."

"You asked him to look up space-time coordinates?" Tony raised his eyes to his hairline, shocked, "You?"

"I was afraid there was an anomaly, but I couldn't look for it."

"Please. You control time. All you had to do was wind back that green stone and..." Tony replied.

"It's not that simple," replied Strange, annoyed.

"Why?" asked Steve, frowning, worried, "You control time."

"I said I couldn't!" cried Stephen.

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"I made a mistake, okay? Is that what you wanted to know? I made a mistake by..." he looked sideways at Sherlock, who frowned in concern. So that's what had gone wrong. "I made a mistake in changing a timeline. Even if I control the time, I cannot correct a mistake I made myself."

"A mistake?" asked Tony, Bruce, and Steve, alarmed. A Supreme Sorcerer's mistake sounded dangerous.

"Yes, I was... distracted."

"Oh, great. The magician was distracted," snarled Tony, "what was the matter, were your balloons pricked?"

Stephen tilted his head.

"Stop comparing me to a carnival magician!" roared Strange "this is very serious!"

"He's right, Tony, this is very serious. He created an anomaly," supported Bruce.

"What the hell is an anomaly?" Clint asked.

"The timeline Stephen broke should have been closed in a parallel universe. But before it was closed, something escaped from it."

"How could that happen? How could you make a mistake like that?" Bruce was amazed.

"I... I was so eager to help someone; I wasn't as cautious as I should have been."

"Perfect," Natasha grumbled. "Well, it's not that bad. You've always said that jumps to another universe are limited in time, and whatever jumps is attracted by its original universe."

"Unless what has jumped from one universe to another, it jumps to a different one, realizing that it can travel between them. Then it can move at will," replied Bruce, and Stephen nodded.

"That's what kidnapped Everett," intervened Sherlock.

"Well, that's easy. Return it to its universe, and Everett will be back," decided Steve.

"Sure," supported Tony. "You just have to do that circular thing you do with your hand, create a portal, and kick it back to its world."

"I can't do that. As Bruce says, he became aware that he can travel between different universes. Once he realized that, he leaves no trace when he goes from one universe to another," he sighed. "It's not about going back to a particular time in the past. That would be easy. It's about going back to the birth of an anomaly in the space-time continuum and ..."

"You can't do it if you're the one who created it.." apostilled Tony.

"Brilliant, brilliant!" Steve grumbled.

"Leave him alone," intervened Sherlock, "There's no point in looking for blame. You have to look for solutions."

Stephen looked at him, gratefully. He was mortified by what happened, so much he began to doubt his ability to be the Sorcerer Supreme.

"No," Stephen stared at Sherlock after the detective barked the monosyllable, "You are the Sorcerer Supreme. But you're also human. You made a mistake, and who doesn't? I'm sure all these jumping jacks have a few to their credit too."

"Sherlock..." John reconvened.

"No, Batman's right," said Tony. "Whatever happens, it's done. Now we have to fix it. Bruce, what have you got?"

"Since Stephen can't create the portal, we could do it artificially, I mean, without magic or time control."

"Okay, that sounds easy."

"Yeah, but it's not. The portals Stephen opens are held in place by magic, a mighty force that can even counter gravity. We don't have that force, and the portals we open between our universe and the anomalies are not stable. Sooner or later, they close."

"What does that mean?" Natasha asked.

"That we could go, but not come back if the portal closed. We would be trapped in that universe forever. Even worse, if the opening were to fall apart as we crossed it, it would tear us to pieces, and I assure you it would not be an enjoyable death.

"And there's no way to keep it?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Try incorporating antimatter," Tony suggested.

"Antimatter?" asked Clint as an echo.

"Yes, dark matter. It's what generates the balance of forces in the universe. Perhaps, coupled with the matter, it would combat gravity's force and give stability to the portal.

"Sure! Why didn't I think of that?"

He ran to the lab. The others followed silently. He pressed several keys on a panel, and a simulation of the portal appeared floating between them.

"This is what we had until now. This is our universe," pointed to a greenish vertical strip, "This is where the singularity occurred. We've calculated this by taking into account where Everett disappeared. If we use only matter to connect them..."

A crater was created in each of the strips that were getting deeper and deeper, until connecting both universes by a kind of tunnel. The simulation advanced in time, and when the chronometer marked three hours, the tunnel broke in two.

"We're dead," announced Bruce. "But if we add antimatter to the model..." Bruce pressed a few keys, incorporating it into the mathematical model. The tunnel between the two vertical plants was generated again, and the counter started up again. One hour, two, three, four, five, and it was stable. Everyone was staring at the model. Tony and Bruce smiled. They had it.

"Is something wrong with Mr. Holmes?" Peter whispered to John. The doctor turned and saw Sherlock sitting in a high chair, eyes closed, fingers stapled under his chin.

"He is okay. He is in his Mind Palace."

"Oh, the Mind Palace!" the teenager wondered, "So he goes inside it?"

"If I told you..."

"I think we got it," announced Bruce. The clock struck ten hours, and the portal was still intact.

"You are a genius, Bruce," Steve praised, slapping him on the back.

"It won't work," Sherlock's deep voice echoed from the back of the room.

"What are you saying, idiot?" We are seeing it with our own eyes," replied Tony.

"No, what you are seeing is a model based on the hypothesis that both matter and antimatter remain constant. That's why it remains in time, but in the universe..."

"They don't hold steady," whispered Bruce, impressed and defeated. Sherlock was right.

John opened his eyes wide looking at the detective. If he didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the Sun, how could he possibly know what was going on with matter and antimatter?"

"Don't look so surprised. It's your fault, with all those documentaries you make me watch," he grunted.

"Documentaries?" snapped Clint. "With all due respect, it takes more than a documentary to do what Bruce does."

"His knowledge goes beyond documentaries, even if he doesn't want to admit it," John said.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Anyway, it's not that hard to do what he does," replied Sherlock, pointing at Bruce.

Bruce tilted his head and pressed his lips together, annoyed, looking dangerously at the detective, a greenish glow illuminating his eyes.

"Sherlock, don't piss him off," warned John.

"Yes, Batman, you don't want to meet his green friend."

The detective looked at John, inquisitive.

"I'll explain to you later, but don't. piss. him. off, for God's sake."

"Well, if you're so smart, go ahead," Bruce grumbled, turning off the model that floated before them.

Sherlock stood in front of the dashboard.

"Yes, let's see what you can do. It takes a genius to handle this." Tony scoffed.

The detective stared at the panel for several minutes. He closed his eyes, gathering more information from his mental palace. He remained like this for five minutes until, as if waking up, he pressed several keys, triggering the projection. He glanced mockingly at Tony.

"A genius, exactly" he looked at John, who smiled, delighted.

"What's your solution, Sherlock?"

"We have matter and antimatter, as Ben said."

"Bruce," snarled the scientist.

"Whatever. We need to stabilize them, and for that, we need extraordinary matter."

Bruce looked at him with his eyes wide open.

"Sure! How could we not have thought of that," he looked at Tony and frowned, "Why didn't you think of that? You are a genius."

"Beginner's luck," grunted the billionaire. 

"What is the exotic matter?" asked Peter, curious.

"Exotic matter has a negative mass. We, the Earth, and everything else in the universe has positive mass, that's why it's attracted by gravity," explained Bruce.

"But exotic matter, having negative mass, repels it, as if it were an anti-gravity," continued Sherlock.

"A compelling anti-gravity force, capable of exerting a great deal of pressure on space-time, more pressure than there would be at the core of a neutron star," continued Tony, "and that will keep the passageway between universes open."

"And will it be stable?" Steve asked.

"As long as we want," replied Bruce, pointing to the simulator's counter, which was already past twenty-four hours. 

"Brilliant," mused John, and the others chuckled as they watched Sherlock and Tony swell up like a turkey.

"What Stark needed," mused Steve, and Natasha and Clint laughed, the billionaire ostensibly ignored them.

"Well, time to go to where Ross disappeared."

**********

"You didn't have to kill him," groaned Everett, looking at the man's lifeless body who Homest just shot in the forehead to take his car away from him. "Just with showing him the gun, he would have given it to you. You can't go around killing people."

Holmes didn't reply, opened the passenger door and pushed Everett inside, who, with his hands tied behind his back, fell like a bundle on the seat. As the other man circled to enter the other door, he continued to try to free himself. Ross grunted to himself in frustration. He had not even managed to loosen the bonds.

Holmes sat down next to him, and from one of his coat pockets, he pulled out a black hood, which put over Everett's head. The CIA agent felt for a moment that he couldn't breathe, the fabric sticking to his nose and mouth every time he inhaled.

"Why?" he simply asked.

"Why do you keep trying to untie yourself when you think I can't see you?" Holmes chuckled when Ross stiffened. Holmes had never been looking when he was trying to get loose, he'd taken good care of it. "Don't look so surprised. It is my business to know what other people do not know.

"Where are we going?"

"Home."

He started the car at full speed. Everett wobbled from side to side in the turns sharpening his ear to identify any familiar sounds that would give him a clue as to where they were going. It was clear that Holmes' only goal was to get him to remember. And if they were in London... He smiled under the hood. Holmes was about to make a mistake. The place they were going would be full of police.

The car stopped with a dry spell, and Ross feared for a moment that Holmes might have read his mind. If he didn't have that ability, he was close. He frowned at the sound—a lock pick. Holmes was trying to force a door.

"Come on," he ordered, taking his arm and pulling on his "steps. Seventeen," he warned, and then continued to pull him, forcing him to stumble up. Ross held his breath. He seemed to be right, he said to himself, as he heard Holmes make another door. One more pull and they crossed over into the place.

"Steps," warned Holmes again, forcing him back up. Another door opened, and Holmes pushed him hard, making him fall, but instead of on the floor, he fell on a mattress. A mattress? A bed.

Holmes took off his hood and stroked his hair, stuck to his forehead by sweat. He acted with a mixture of hardness and sensitivity with him that had him puzzled. As if he felt towards him an infinite fury and great tenderness. Ross almost rendered to the touch. If he closed his eyes, it was almost like... No, no Everett, he told himself. Stop daydreaming. Focus yourself.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Baker Street"

"This will be the first place where they'll look for me."

"I'm aware of it."

Ross arched an eyebrow, surprised. By now, cops had to know that it was Holmes who was leaving London strewn with bodies. But there was no one there but the two of them.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"When suffering from amnesia, it is important to return to a familiar environment to help the brain remember," Holmes replied. "Does it feel familiar?"

Ross looked around. The room was quite sober. The narrow bed, the dark closet, and a small desk by the window. The only distinguishing feature, a British army mug. He sighed. He had to continue the pantomime to stay alive.

"My army mug," he said, in a shot in the air. But Holmes was too smart to swallow that little bait.

Everett searched his memory. Holmes had said that Watson had fought in Afghanistan. He had been shot. He'd been discharged from the army and returned to London with little more than his army pension. He shouldn't have had a family if he shared a flat.

"The only thing I had when I came back," he mused and saw a strange gleam in Holmes' eyes, full of sadness and anger. Hope, that's what shone. Ross inhaled deeply. He was increasingly fond of this Watson.

******

Greg was crouched over the longshoreman's body, looking for a clue with Anderson that would let them know what had happened. But they had nothing. He swore to himself. When they got stuck, they went to Sherlock. But now, apparently, he had one escaped Sherlock in New York and another in London killing people.

Interestingly, Sherlock was investigating the case of the point-blank killings, the same MO as the case of the body next to him. Three men were killed for no apparent reason and with no connection to each other. One in Hackney, one in Brixton and the next in St James's Park and this last one in Lambeth.

But Sherlock was puzzled by the murders. He certainly didn't behave as if he was the perpetrator. He shook his head. What a stupid thing to do. If anyone knew how to cover up the fact that he was the author of a murder, it would be Sherlock. But he didn't. Greg knew him, and he knew the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath wasn't that. With John, he achieved a stability he hadn't had before. No matter how hard Donovan tried and the cameras proved it, it wasn't Sherlock who did it, he was sure of it, but he would need a third Sherlock to prove it.

Shit.

"Maybe it was a skin," ventured Anderson, taking Lestrade out of his thoughts.

"A skin?"

"Well, I mean, a mask. Someone who would try to frame the freak. There's a lot of people who want to get even with him. If he was convicted of murder and put him in jail, could you imagine what they'd do with him? He wouldn't last ten minutes.

Greg shuddered at the idea. Anderson wasn't usually brilliant, but that was the closest thing they had to an explanation. The quality of the camera footage was terrible. Knowing that it might be easy to impersonate him. But it wasn't just the face: the way he moved, the impassiveness of the face, was the same.

"We will work on that hypothesis for now," he pulled out his phone and dialed "Mycroft?" he asked, unsure. With Sherlock's brother, you never knew. One minute he was affable, and the next, he was looking at you like a hideous bug. "I need to see you" he closed his eyes and blushed. Why had he said that?

It seemed Sherlock's brother was surprised too, because he was silent for a few moments, deciphering the phrase. Finally, he cleared his throat:

"Of course. I'm sending you a car. Five minutes." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoy it.


	4. Back to the alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers met Mycroft. Sherlock, Stephen, Tony, Steve and Natasha go back to John's wedding day.

"I'm hungry," grunted Everett.

Holmes let him rest for a few hours handcuffed to the bed. After that, holding a gun, dragged him to the living room and handcuffed him to one of the heating pipes. Apart from the fact that he was indeed ravenous, he hoped that would force Holmes to get food somehow, which would allow him to stay in the apartment alone and try to escape.

Resting, it had been impossible. Everett pretended to be asleep, trying to catch Holmes off guard, but the man stayed up all the time, without even blinking, pointing the gun at him, so in the end, Everett decided to sleep, rest and recover.

Holmes observed him for a few seconds. The CIA agent held his gaze, which allowed him to look at him more closely, for the first time in broad daylight. Sometimes, Everett couldn't wonder if he wasn't Stephen; if the Supreme Sorcerer somehow lost his mind and transmuted into the man in the coat. The physical resemblance, except for the long, curly hair and the lack of a mustache and goatee, was impressive. He could even see in Holmes some of Stephen's gestures, which, deep down, reassured him. But it also made him sad. Listening to the man who looked so much like Stephen, saying the words he wanted to hear Strange's lips, filled his heart and broke it at the same time.

Until now, he had managed his feelings and silenced them because his contact with Strange was scarce. But next to Holmes, his brain read him like Strange, and his emotions drove him almost out of breath.

It was love at first sight. Everett met Strange by chance at Avengers headquarters when he was, as usual, arguing with Stark. The two of them reminded him of those two old men in the Muppet's box, engaged in an endless discussion but at the same time happy to be fighting each other. It was evident that, although they both wanted to keep it a secret, they were a couple. That's why Everett decided to plunge his feelings into the deepest corner of his heart. There was no point in hoping.

But he surprised himself by thinking about Strange every minute. He sought excuses to meet him, even went to the New York sanctum a couple of times. Until he decided it had to end. He could not live in love like a child with a man who would never notice him.

Because what was he? Only a man. He didn't have Hulk's strength or wasn't a God like Thor, or superpowers like Spiderman. He neither had a cool armor like Ironman. He was merely a man. And Stephen was the Sorcerer Supreme. There was no way someone like Strange will love someone like him, so… ordinary.

But somehow, being with Holmes rekindled his feelings for Strange. Holmes' and Strange's voices were so similar that he felt like he was listening to Stephen if he closed his eyes. So he shut his eyes when Holmes said he loved him madly, or when assured they would always be together, that nothing and nobody could separate them.

In those moments, he dreamed it was Stephen telling him what he wanted so badly to hear. He gulped, squeezing his eyes tight. It hurt so much, that evil joke of fate.

"Are you okay, John?" Holmes asked, worried,

Everett was about to nod when he stopped as an idea came to his mind. Maybe it could be a way to trick Holmes. Because it was evident, the crazy man was desperate to be reciprocated in love. And maybe…

"No, I'm not okay, Holmes," he grunted, looking at the tall man's eyes.

"I will bring you food soon."

"It's not the food. I mean… I'm hungry, but…, it's only" Everett hesitated a couple of seconds," I can't understand how you are capable of doing this to me."

Holmes frowned deeply.

"This is not the way to treat the person you love and… who loves you so much".

Holmes opened his eyes wide, breathless, frozen, and Everett could see a hint of hope in those verdigris eyes as he bit his lower lip.

"What did you say?"

"You are pointing me with a gun all the time, handcuffed me, starved me… and you say you love me…?" Everett lowered his head and managed to produce a strangled sob. "I…, I thought all you said was true but, but your acts…".

"It's true!" shouted Holmes, kneeling in front of him, grabbing Everett's chin and lifting his head." It's true. I love you more than anything."

Holmes had tears in his eyes, and he was refraining himself as if he were afraid of what he just heard wasn't real.

"I love you more than I can say. I love you from the moment I saw you at the lab, but I was too coward to confess it because, because…, you know me. I'm not good with feelings, I…I, I never thought you could love me too, I…I…and when you married Mary…. Why did you marry Mary if you loved me?".

Everett hesitated. He didn't expect a confession so sincere, so passionated. The man was mad, but suffering from unrequited love as much as was himself. Everett wondered if he could also get crazy for lovesick, as Holmes did. The detective's words came genuinely from his heart, were sincere, and, even being his prisoner, Everett felt horrible for playing with the man's feelings. But he had to finish what he started.

"Because…, because… you are Sherlock Holmes. You are clever and handsome and… I am only…me, nothing special, a soldier, a…" he whispered, feeling strange for confessing his feelings so openly, but relieved for being able to do it at last."

Holmes stroked his hair.

"Nothing special? You are perfect, John Watson, you changed my life, allowed me to believe I could be loved that I could be… human. You were my first friend, John, the first person who didn't run away within hours of meeting me, who thought I was brilliant instead of a freak…, you kept me right, John, and I'm… I'm…" Holmes threw away the SIG that flew away under the couch and started searching in his pocket with shaking hands until he produced the handcuff key. He was about to unlock them, when he stopped, wavering.

"You are not lying to me, aren't you?" he asked, his voice a mix of fear, unbelief, and threat. "Because if all of this is a lie, you won't get out of here alive."

Everett gulped. There was a hint of mad coldness in Holmes's voice that made his hair stand on end. But this was his only chance.

"Of course not. I love you," he assured, mentally adding Stephen. "I thought you were mad at me for the wedding. It was a mistake, but I was so confused…"

"Sssssssssh," shushed Holmes, "It's okay, it's all right now. We could start a new life, far from here. A new starting, where no one knows us".

"That sounds perfect, but love, my wrists are aching…".

"I'm so sorry…"

Before Holmes could unlock the handcuffs, someone knocked hard on the front door. Holmes dropped the hand with the key, and Everett cursed to himself.

"Freak!!!!" Donovan's angry voice was audible from the other side, "Open the door. You could fool Lestrade and Mycroft, but not me. I know you are there with John. I swear I'll be the one putting you in handcuffs in the squad car!".

Holmes looked at Everett with crazy eyes.

"You called her. You were lying to me. You called her!" Holmes shouted, retrieving the gun from under the couch

"No. I didn't. I love you, remember. I want to start with you a new life. She… it wasn't too hard for her to imagine that, as soon as you could, you'd come back to Baker Street".

Holmes scratched his head with the gun. John was right. Damn it! He went back to Baker Street to make John remember their time together, but he never thought he'd be found quickly. Especially not Donovan. In fact. Why were they looking for him? For four or five bodies?

The desire for John to regain his memory had caused him to make a mistake. And soon it wouldn't just be Donovan, but a strike team, who would show up there. And it would all have been in vain.

"Come in, Donovan, the door is opened," answered Holmes, his tone surprisingly calm.

Everett opened his mouth to warn her, but the detective, always on top, muffled the sound by gagging him with tape. The knob turned slowly, the door opened, and the barrel of a gun appeared.

"Hello Sergeant," Holmes waved, "drop the gun, or I'll blow his head off."

Everett felt the SIG barrel sticking to the back of his skull and heard Holmes pull the gun's safety."

"Or I'll blow your head off before you can pull the trigger," replied the woman, firmly holding the gun in both hands.

Holmes smiled disdainfully.

"Donovan, you forget that I always know what you're thinking."

"Oh, yes?" Donovan glanced sideways across the room until his gaze fell on Everett.

"John, are you okay?"

Everett nodded, mentally trying to warn her.

"Donovan, if you are going to shoot me, do it now because if you don't, I will. I would like to get back to the conversation John and I were having as soon as possible."

The woman hesitated for a tenth of a second and opened her eyes wider when she saw Holmes raise his gun and fire. Her body fell to the ground with a dry thud.

******

Sherlock's phone buzzed at the Avengers facilities. He looked at the name at the screen and put it again in his pocket.

"Who is calling?" asked John.

"Mycroft. I guess he will be to get us tangled up in one of his boring cases".

The phone buzzed once, twice, trice…

"Answer him. Maybe it's important".

"Important coming from Mycroft? I doubt it":

He focused his attention again in the wormhole simulation, contemplating with satisfaction how it remained open and unchanged no matter how far the timer advanced.

"Great," clapped Bruce "now we only need…"

"Someone is trying to communicate through the private line," warned FRIDAY, suddenly, cutting Bruce.

"Who?" asked Tony. That line was known only by the Avengers, and FRIDAY. wouldn't call any of them _someone_. "This line is armored and encrypted. It's impossible…"

"Good morning, gentlemen, lady, Sherlock, Doctor Watson…"

"Oh, for goodness sake, Mycroft!" grunted Sherlock looking at his brother, who just appeared on the screen. "What the hell do you want?"

"Who the hell are you?" asked Tony, "You are communicating through an Avengers private line."

"He is Mycroft, my brother," explained Sherlock, clearly pissed off.

"Making new friends, little brother? You should choose your companies better than that bunch of self-proclaimed heroes".

"Mycroft…" warned John.

"Look, asshole, I don't care if you're his brother, cousin, or whatever. Get out of the line now," Tony ordered.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, delighted at the puzzled expression that crossed Mycroft's mind during a second. Then he regained his usual self-sufficiency and superiority and looked at Tony like he was a bug.

"I wouldn't have to use your private line if my little brother would be kind enough to pick up his phone."

"What for, to listen to your usual bullshit?"

"Wow, I thought to have a brother was great, but they hate each other," whispered Peter, astonished.

"Yeah, they make cool to be an only child," mocked Tony.

"You have no idea," John sighed.

"What do you want, Mycroft? I'm busy".

"Holy shit!" Mycroft shouted to John's amazement. It was the first time he heard Mycroft cursing.

But both Mycroft and Lestrade were gawking at his screen were Sherlock and Stephen appeared together. For a moment, both Lestrade and Mycroft thought it was some Sherlock's kind of joke. But the elder Holmes soon deduced that, while identical from a physical point of view, it wasn't like that in their way of being. Strange was egotistic and full of himself but didn't have Sherlock's complete lack of social skills. His eyes could look like Sherlock's but weren't as pierced as them, and he couldn't deduce people, though he possessed some kind of ancient knowledge, deep and vast, that Mycroft couldn't help but respect,

Sherlock chuckled. 

"You see, one in hundred thirty-five chance that there is s a single pair of exact doppelgangers, and I found him," he said. 

"It seems in this case you doubled the chance," joked Stephen, looking at John. The three of them chuckled.

Mycroft quickly pulled himself together.

"You won't laugh so hard when the FBI shows up there to arrest you for the kidnapping of John and the murder of four men."

"Mycroft, are you drank?

"Interpol has issued an international arrest warrant for you, and the FBI has located you in New York, so..."

"And I suppose you had nothing to do with that, did you?" snarled Sherlock.

"I'm just looking out for your well-being, Sherlock" he looked at the Avengers and sighed. "You don't know what it's like always to have to look out for a little brother who only knows how to get into trouble."

"I do." Thor raised his hand.

"Yes, but I'm sure you don't spend all day annoying him" the detective turned to Mycroft, "And where did your wonderful Secret Service men get that information this time? From Google?".

"Oh, no, from a recording of a security camera record. And it wasn't my men. It was the Yard".

Sherlock snorted.

"It is photoshopped, and they haven't even noticed."

"No, Sherlock, our experts verified them, as well as Mycroft's. It hasn't been tricked. You should see the images. This is very serious," said Lestrade's voice off-camera.

"Lestrade?" asked John. 

"Yes, and you've had the brilliant idea to get out of the country, which you know I can't protect you. Stupid as always, little brother," Mycroft hissed, not letting Greg answer.

"I don't need any help. Do you believe I killed them?"

"Little brother, I've long since accepted that you always exceed my expectations, in a wrong way, of course." 

"I understand now why you have such a shitty temper," said Bruce to Sherlock. "I'd have it too with a jerk like that as an older brother."

"John, are you okay?" asked Lestrade, appearing on the image.

"Of course, Greg. We are here on a case. What's all this bullshit?"

"You should watch this."

All of them fixed his eyes on the screen. Sherlock raised a gun in the image and shot at the man's head without blinking, mumbling "idiot" when the body hit the ground. He turned to someone at the back of the image. 

"Can you explain this, little brother?"

"Of course I can," he replied, disdainful "it's not the first time someone tries to impersonate me to charge me with a crime."

"FRIDAY. just analyzed the image. She said it's not tricked, nor is the man characterized, then it's you who appear on that recording". 

"Sherlock?" John was looking at him, worried, and a bit alarmed. He knew Sherlock couldn't kill someone in cold blood, but the man in the recording… undoubtedly was him.

"I haven't shot him."

"FRIDAY says the opposite," grunted Tony.

"You shot him at point-blank range," accused Clint.

"I told you it wasn't me! I don't know who that man is, or why he is trying to frame me, but it wasn't me!" Sherlock fought back, desperate.

He didn't give a damn what the Avengers thought, but the doubt and bewilderment in John's eyes hurt him. He couldn't bear the doctor looking at him like that, as if all the faith he had in Sherlock was shattered into a thousand pieces. 

Suddenly, Steve grabbed Sherlock and smashed him against the wall, pinning him down with a twisted arm. Sherlock tried to get out, unable to move an inch, due to Steve's strength, who twisted the detective's arm a bit more, making him scream in pain.

"Let him go," shouted John, and he ran to Steve, grabbing the hand that was twisting the detective's arm, trying to make him release the detective.

"Is he trying to break Steve by force?" Natasha asked, somewhere between surprised and amused.

"Yes, I think that's exactly what he's doing," replied Clint in the same tone.

"Love has those things," scoffed Tony.

They got serious when the sound of a gun safety catch being released reverberated across the room. They gaped at John Watson, who had nothing to do with the affable, quiet, almost shy man who entered Avengers facilities. This John held a gun firmly in his left hand, the barrel resting on Steve's temple. The good doctor vanished, making way for the soldier.

"I won't tell you again, Steve," warned the doctor. "Let him go. He didn't kill anybody."

The anguish vanished from Sherlock's heart, tempered by John's defense of him. His determined gesture, his tight lips, his slightly bowed head, and that sort of smile which announced he wouldn't mind turning the place into hell in a second.

"John, no," groaned Sherlock, fearful the Avengers might harm him. He tried once more to get rid of Steve, but he had no range of motion. One more millimeter and the man would break his arm like a toothpick.

"You are a soldier, just like me, and you know that if I have to shoot you, I will do it," John continued.

"Let him go, Steve," ordered Stephen.

"You watched the recording. FRIDAY confirmed it. Even his brother believes it was him, judging the way he talks." countered Steve.

"His brother is a cretin," John mumbled, clenching his teeth, without moving his gun a millimeter.

Steve hesitated. He didn't want to hurt John. He knew the doctor only wanted to protect Sherlock, and, as a soldier, he would do anything to achieve his goal. He wouldn't shoot him unless it were necessary. Otherwise, John would have done already. But the recording and FRIDAY confirmed the detective was a murderer.

"John, please don't make the situation worse," Greg begged from the screen.

Both men, like the Avengers, seemed speechless at the doctor's reaction. Not surprised. They knew John and how he cared for Sherlock. He would do anything. Even confront the Avengers for protecting him...

"I said let him go!" bellowed Stephen

"Okay," Steve released Sherlock, who groaned, rubbing his arm. John went over to check him up to make sure Steve hadn't hurt him.

"As you can imagine," Mycroft's voice echoed across the room, "Donovan is like a child on Christmas morning. She is dreaming about handcuffing you…"

"Donovan?" asked Bruce.

"A New Scotland Yard Sergeant," answered John. "Greg, tell them Sherlock is innocent."

"Sorry, John, I'm afraid Sherlock has gone too far this time."

"It wasn't him," Stephen repeated.

"How do you know it?" replied Tony.

"The one on the screen is the anomaly Ross was investigating. The one who kidnapped him and them, "he pointed to the screen where Mycroft and Lestrade listened carefully, "think he is John."

Bruce frowned.

"But that implies the leap in the space-time continuum you gave him to..."

"Yes, yes, yes," cut Stephen, who saw Sherlock's worried look. "It doesn't matter what it was for. The essential here is that the one in the image, who looks like Sherlock, is not."

"Even if it's not, it will get him into a lot of trouble," Tony said.

"Gentlemen, I love your science-fiction delusions…" Mycroft started.

"Cut that asshole off," growled Tony to Friday, and the screen turned black.

"We have to get going. We are going three months back in time," ordered Stephen " John, you should stay here in case we need to replace Ross. Clint and Peter will be here with you. The rest of us are leaving." 

"Don't you want to come? I thought you would love time travel," asked Tony, noticing Peter wasn't bothered for not time-traveling.

"Oh, I would love to, Mr. Stark, but... I would rather stay here with Doctor Watson, if he doesn't mind, of course."

John smiled and shook his head. Peter glowed.

"Of course not," the billionaire tried to reply uncharacteristically, but he could not entirely hide the disappointment in his voice. Steve looked at Natasha, who stared at the floor, biting her lips. Stark was not at all happy that Peter admired anyone but himself.

"Time to dust off the suits," clapped Tony.

"What suits?" asked Sherlock.

"Quantum suits. We can't travel through time as he can," he pointed at Stephen." And, to travel through it, we need the Quantum Suits." Steve, Bruce, Stephen, Natasha, and Sherlock followed him. The billionaire was already on his way to where they kept Quantum Suits and the stocks of Pym Particles that Henry Pym produced.

When the door closed behind them, he turned to Stephen.

"Stephen, come out. Why does the Batman alter ego go around killing people, and what does that have to do with Doctor Watson?"

Stephen looked at him in surprise. Sherlock smiled.

"Why do you say it has to do with Doctor Watson?"

"Because you left him here like a punished child when there's no need for him to impersonate Ross. So this whole mess is because of something between you two that concerns Doctor Watson, but you don't want him to know, am I wrong?"

Stephen looked at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"He's going to know it anyway."

Natasha narrowed her eyes.

"What are you both up to? How long have you known each other?"

"All in good time," said Stephen, ending the discussion.

"I need exact coordinates for the spatial-temporal GPS," asked Bruce.

"May 18th, 2008, 22:25," replied Stephen.

He looked at Sherlock, a bit concerned.

"You have to be prepared for everything."

"I am always prepared for anything."

"And on top of that, modest. Charming," Tony grumbled. Natasha snorted, and Steve mouthed "jealous."

Bruce set up the GPS space-time coordinates.

"The tunnel through the Quantum Realm will be opened in twenty minutes. Just time for you to put on your suit," he announced.

Ten minutes later, Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Sherlock were on the Quantum platform, wearing their time suits, waiting for the tunnel through the Quantum Realm to open. Bruce tapped commands in the Quantum Console.

"Ready?" Bruce asked.

They nodded, and the platform started to vibrate.

"Don't worry," smiled Natasha, observing the detective's distressed gesture. "It's fun, you'll see."

Sherlock did not answer. He wasn't worried about the jump in time. He feared going back to John's wedding day. To all that suffering and despair, to the pain of knowing he lost John forever. He was terrified that, somehow, that line of space and time would come around the course and make the last three months, the happiest time of his life, vanished like a dream. He couldn't go back to the dark solitude that was his only companion until he met John, to the obscurity that he only achieved to dispel by getting high. He couldn't go back to hell after touching the heaving with John.

The tunnel sucked them in, and they vanished from the platform. Stephen opened a portal that led directly to the alley from where he transported Sherlock to Bleek Street.

He wanted to get there before the others and see where the fault was. He came to the alley and looked at his watch. About ten minutes before the others arrived, precisely a quarter of an hour before the Sherlock from the previous timeline appeared in the alley. He bit his lips, guilty. He noticed Sherlock's anguished face, the fear of losing everything, so intense that not even the detective, with his exceptional ability to hide his feelings and act detached from them, could disguise.

Stephen understood Sherlock's dread. He found it easy to put himself in his shoes. Many times, in the mirror dimension, Stephen told Everett he loved him since that day he saw him at the Avengers' facility. It was just a minute, and Stephen pretended not to pay much attention to the CIA agent. He knew Tony and didn't want to be made fun of. At any other time, he wouldn't mind, but when he saw Everett, something twisted inside him. Love at first sight. And from that moment on, he could only think of him.

He found it embarrassing to fall in love like a teenager. He kept telling himself it didn't make any sense to be so taken with someone for whom he had gone entirely unnoticed. Because Everett barely noticed him, he hadn't paid any attention to him.

Stephen would give anything to make Everett notice him, love him with the same intensity he loved Ross. But his magic, like the rest of the universe, had two limitations: love and death. Nothing, not even the most potent of myriads, could change them. Stephen knew this well. He spent hours in the New York sanctum looking for some spell to make Everett's feelings for him change. But magic couldn't fight the free will that love implies.

Until one day, the sanctum's guard in London notified him criminals in London were organizing themselves. Looking for an answer to that, he arrived at Sherlock Holmes, heartbroken, and in pain, who decided that life was not worth living.

He attended the detective's conversation with his brother and how he dismissed him. It was then that he saw Sherlock and John's entire past. He was shocked to see the doctor, who looked so much like Everett, and when he saw Sherlock and John together, he saw Everett and him reflected.

Stupidly, he decided the universe would help him if he gave a push. And as Sherlock headed down the alley to stock up on drugs, he decided it was time to help him. He offered him the chance to go back in time and then..,

Right at that moment, Tony, Steve, Sherlock, and Natasha materialized next to him.

"What do we do now?" Tony asked.

"Wait."

"For what?" Natasha asked.

"For him."

The three watched as a second Sherlock appeared in the alley, dressed in a morning suit and coat over him. He lay back on the wall, looking back and forth.

"What were you doing here?" asked Tony.

"Soothe the pain," the detective replied laconically.

"Well, what are we waiting for? If he's the singularity, let's go get him." urged Steve.

"He's not the one we're waiting for," replied Stephen.

"But you said...."

Stephen gestured for silence.

Suddenly, a round and shiny portal opened up under the detective's floor, and he vanished into it.

"This was when I took you to New York," Stephen said to Sherlock.

"And that's it?" asked Tony.

"No, we must keep waiting."

They waited a few minutes. The portal was still open, hissing, turning in a circle.

Natasha frowned.

"Shouldn't the portal have closed by now?"

Stephen nodded.

"That was my mistake."

"Did you leave an inter-dimensional door open?" shrieked Tony.

"I don't think you're exactly the one who can criticize other's mistakes," snarled Stephen.

Tony confronted him.

"Of course, I can."

"That's enough," intervened Steve, getting in between them and pushing one on each side.

"And now?" asked Sherlock, ignoring the fight between them.

"Let's see which reality of you appears through the portal."

"What reality of me?"

Stephen sighed.

"We all have infinite possibilities to choose from. Once we make a choice, we give up all the rest. At least in our dimension. In others, different versions of us make different choices, covering all the possibilities we have."

"New age nonsense," snarled Tony.

"Well, the new age nonsense just came through the gate," announced Natasha.

Indeed. Another Sherlock appeared through the portal Stephen had left open.

"In this universe, you gave up fighting for John. You let him marry Mary because you thought that was what he wanted. You decided your suffering was a way of compensating John for his grieving after you jumped off the roof of St Bart's".

Sherlock bit his lower lip, looked at the floor, and nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"But in another reality, another version of you decided to fight for John, that he wouldn't let him marry Mary."

"And why did he cross over?" asked Steve. "it's not often that one reality jumps to another."

Stephen pointed to Sherlock.

"He was suffering. Very much so. Much more than he expected or could bear. John's marriage to Mary was too hard for him. So much suffering attracted his other reality here, to help him. If I had closed the portal, nothing would have happened, but when he found it open, he jumped into this dimension".

"But, I would have kidnapped John, not Ross," Sherlock muttered.

"Something happened that led him to another dimension. Keep one thing in mind. Whatever happens, we cannot intervene. This Sherlock will lead us to Ross. If we intervene, we will create another timeline, and we may never find him".

The second Sherlock waited, leaning on the wall, looking from time to time at both sides. A few minutes later, a small, thin man appeared, his eyes red, his blond hair stuck together, and a mocking smile on his face.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was pale, and his eyes were swollen and red for crying. He held a cigarette in a shaky hand but managed to maintain his composure and an inexpressive gesture.

"Bill, you know what I want," he said, looking down at the floor. He seemed ashamed of himself.

"It will cost you dearly."

"Money is no object."

"You're wrong, detective. Money is always the problem."

Sherlock stared at him until his eyes caught sight of shadows moving behind Bill.

It only took him a tenth of a second to realize Bill had sold him out.

He turned and walked quickly across the alley, but soon another group of about twenty men cut him off.

The detective swallowed his breath and turned, as the men surrounded him.

"All right, let's get it over with," he muttered through his teeth.

It was the sign they were waiting for. The detective moved quickly, punching, kicking, and knocking down his attackers with force, while dodging blows with agility and ease, but more and more criminals were swirling around in the alley. The detective began to show signs of fatigue until a strong hook aimed at his jaw brought him down to the ground, where he received a shower of kicks, hits, and punches. Amazingly, Sherlock made no sound, not even the slightest whimper. He just shrank with the heavy blows, taunts, and laughter of his attackers until a hard kick to his head knocked him unconscious. After several more punches and kicks, they left the alley, and Sherlock laid on the ground, alone, in pain and blood.

"You saved me," murmured the Sherlock of the present to Stephen, shocked, "You knew this would happen."

Stephen nodded.

"Is he dead?" Natasha asked, looking at the bloody, unmoving body of the detective.

None of them answered. The beating had been brutal, and it was unlikely he would survive. After a few endless minutes, they could hear a groan of pain, barely audible. And, miraculously, the detective tried to move. He groaned in pain again, unable to do it.

"Why did you keep fighting?" asked Natasha astonished.

"For John," whispered Sherlock at her side.

"He knew John, by marrying Mary, was in danger. And he wanted to get back to him. That was his motivation."

"But John didn't marry Mary," replied Steve, frowning. "He married John."

"Yes, but this reality of Sherlock doesn't know that Sherlock went back in time and married John. He only knows about the suffering and that he had to protect John".

A little later, another agonizing moan filled the alley. The detective tried to get up from the floor but was unsuccessful. Footsteps and voices were heard in the back of the lane, and the detective knew they were coming to kill him. He dropped to the ground, waiting. Without John, his life was meaningless; he had nothing to live for.

He muttered something. The Avengers and Sherlock pierced his ears, and the mumbled words came to them:

" _There is a proper day to die. But not today. Not on John's wedding day"_.

The detective crawled with difficulty, clutching his hands to the cobblestones on the ground and propelling himself forward. He did not have the strength to stand up. He crept a few more feet and dropped into the ditch. Suddenly his body was gone.

"He slipped through a random portal," Tony observed.

Sherlock, who had closed his eyes, opened them, contemplating how, indeed, there was no trace of the detective.

"A random portal?"

"From time to time, the universe opens interdimensional portals. They are random. No one knows where they lead. If you are in the place where the portal opens, you slide through it."

"And it led directly to Ross?" Sherlock asked.

"That's what we're going to find out," said Natasha. "Can you recreate it?" she asked Stephen.

"I will try."

The Supreme Sorcerer sat down on the floor, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and levitated. A couple of minutes later, he opened his eyes, turned his hands, and created a portal just where Sherlock's body had disappeared.

"Where does it lead?"

Stephen sighed.

"To the worst possible place," he replied. He turned to the others. "Don't separate yourselves, and pay no attention to what you see or hear."

"But where does it go?" Steve asked again

The Supreme Sorcerer didn't answer and just disappeared behind the gate. The others followed silently.


	5. Everett and John

At the Avengers' headquarters, John was telling Peter the details of the latest case while the two of them wrote the blog post, something the doctor stated in the first paragraph of the article. Peter was about to explode with emotion.

"My name on your blog," he exclaimed breathlessly, "I can't believe it."

"Would you like to respond to readers' comments?"

Peter opened his eyes wide.

"Would you let me?"

John laughed. He loved his enthusiasm. He felt immediate sympathy for him, heightened by Sherlock's deductions. Peter reminded him quite a lot of the detective, although, fortunately for him, Peter had been graced with a little more social skills than Sherlock.

"Your life is exciting."

"Yours isn't boring either." John took one look at the headquarters.

"Yes, but sometimes they treat me like a child. They make me do my homework and all that, especially Mr. Stark."

"It's important that you get your education. And Tony does it because he cares about you. He's very fond of you."

"And I really appreciate him."

Peter bit his lips for a moment, hesitantly. John waited, letting him summon up the courage to speak, a trait he practiced daily as a doctor. He pretended to concentrate on the writing.

"Doctor Watson there is... I... you don't have to say yes... that is, if you don't want to or if you think..."

"First, you have to tell me what it's about."

"Could... could you show me Baker Street? I mean, it is where you live, where Mr. Holmes thinks and deduces, you write, and he does these experiments and... could I see if he has got a human head in the fridge?"

John chuckled.

"There is no head, but I'm sure you can find eyeballs or thumbs."

Peter's face was transfigured with emotion.

"Could we go now?"

"Well.., Strange is gone…"

"Wong can take us there."

"I thought only Strange could."

"So does he, with the Sling Ring. I'm going to ask Clint!" he shouted, running off to find the archer.

Soon he was back with him and Bruce.

"Not a good idea, Peter," said the scientist.

"Please, please, please, it will only be for a little while, really," begged Peter, clasping his hands in pleading.

Bruce and Clint looked at each other. John smiled. It was funny to see them. They looked like the parents of a teenager asking them to come home a little later than usual.

"Tony is gonna kill us."

"He will be with me," John said. "Nothing will happen to him. He is going to have a heart attack if you say no".

Clint and Bruce looked at each other, as Peter looked at them, hopefully.

"Half an hour. And by prescription," Bruce pointed to the teenager with his index finger, "if you take any longer, I will come to get you myself, and you'll be grounded until you turn thirty."

"I won't be long, I promise!"

The archer pressed an intercom. Soon after, the image of Wong in the New York sanctum appeared on the screen in front of them.

"Could you take us to 221b Baker Street, Mr. Wong?" Peter asked

"What do you think I am? A travel agent?" roared the librarian with a scowl.

"I... I…" stammered Peter, surprised when Wong laughed loudly and pointed at him.

"It's a joke," he got serious and laughed again. "Next stop, 221b Baker Street."

He turned his hands, opened a new sizzling portal, and the Baker Street living room in front of them. John invited him in to enter.

"Go ahead."

"Wow!!!" shouted Peter as he put one foot on the flat. Once inside, he turned in on himself, not believing he was there.

"Your armchair and the Union Jack Doodle's cushion! And Mr. Holmes' armchair. And the skull!" he went over to take it. "Is it true it is from a friend of Mr. Holmes?"

"No one knows, but just in case, don't touch it too much. Tea?"

Peter wrinkled his nose and moved his head from side to side.

"I... I'm not much for tea, but yes! What the hell! You drink tea for the whole day!"

John laughed and started the kettle, looking around. He felt a certain uneasiness, but he didn't know why. As Peter moved through the living room, screaming, ecstatic every time he recognized an object, John walked through the bedroom, the kitchen, and slowly upstairs to his old room. They were empty, but his instinct put him on guard. Why?"

He prepared two cups of tea and left them on the coffee table, next to his gun, while Peter looked at the notes, photos, and papers Sherlock pinned to the wall for the last case.

Peter's gaze then fell on the violin that Sherlock had left on the table next to his armchair.

"May I...?"

John shook his head.

"No. Sorry. If anything happens to it, Sherlock will kill you and then me."

"I would love to hear him play."

"Come by any day at three o'clock in the morning." smiled John.

Peter chuckled, sat down on the couch, and took a sip of tea. He made an indefinable gesture.

"Would you like to check the fridge for orange juice?"

"The fridge! I forgot it!" he stuck his head in so deep that John was afraid it would stick to the bottom. "A jar full of eyeballs! Disgusting! It's great!"

He took the orange juice jar from the door and sat down on the couch again.

"Can I see your computer?"

"My computer?"

"Mr. Holmes says he is nothing without his blogger. I just decided what I am going to be when I grow up. I'm going to be Spiderman, a medical detective. Or a detective-doctor. Hmmmmm, which will be better?"

"Spiderman Medical-Detective?"

"Yeah, although all of Mr. Stark's devices are cool, too. I'll be Spiderman: inventor-medical-detective. How about that?"

"Criminals' days are numbered," assured John, bumping his mug into Peter's.

*******

Just as the portal was about to close behind them, something prevented it with a metallic sound. As they turned around, they saw Thor, coming in behind them, wielding Stormbreaker.

"Strange, are you crazy? How do you bring them here?"

"He came in here."

Thor waved Stormbreaker in the air a couple of times and pursed his lips.

"Poor devil. Come on, then."

They went into complete darkness. And not just for lack of light. It was a dense, heavy, almost tangible darkness that made anguish and fear grow inside them. Strange created a shield that, besides protecting them, illuminated and helped to mitigate that dense and heavy darkness like oil.

"Don't separate yourselves," warned Stephen.

The shield's orange light gave them a glimpse that they were in a vast cavern, several kilometers in diameter. All around them, greyish walls of half-drowned castles, some almost whole, others just a few rows of eroded stones with some windows.

A ghostly sigh reverberated around them, as a spectral mist enveloped them. Sherlock, Tony, Natasha, and Steve noticed how the hairs on the back of their necks stood up while fear grew inside them. Stephen and Thor's faces, the first one opening the march and the last one closing it, expressed great concern.

"When will we have the pleasure of you telling us where we are?" grunted Tony.

"As I told you, in the worst possible place," he looked sideways at the God of Thunder, who nodded. "As you know, on all planes of the universe, light and darkness complement each other; they cannot exist without each other. Ying and yang, positive and negative, even on the astral plane, we can find light beings and dark entities trying to harm us".

"To the point, Stephen," snarled Natasha.

"This place is the exception. A hell composed only of negativity, darkness, sadness, griefs, frustration, anguish, failed hopes, and broken dreams. If there is a version of ourselves that chooses a different path in every place in the universe, here are grouped all our failed stories, all the lost opportunities, the unrealized dreams... Some of them are part of our past. Others are not. They are part of the infinite possibilities of choice we have in every moment of our lives. Every time we were wrong, every time we were afraid, every time instead of bit the bullet we backed out, that version of us came here. Crossing this place when you are warned about it is hell. To cross it alone, as the other Sherlock did, leads to madness and to the search for redemption at any cost".

Sherlock lowered his head. He didn't know how many of those versions of himself of what. Stephen was talking about were out there, but he was sure there were many.

"That's why the other Sherlock is willing to do anything to get John back," observed Natasha.

Stephen nodded.

"It is the only way to be released from the agony of crossing this place. Seek redemption, make amends," he looked at Sherlock sympathetically "don't feel bad. We are all replicated here by the hundreds: memories that hurt, twist our stomachs and keep us awake. Experiences that make us wonder why we weren't brave, why we didn't fight for ourselves, why we betrayed ourselves... No one is free from that. Fortunately, all of this is forgotten, and when one of these memories assaults us, we return it to the depths of our subconscious, unable to deal with it. But here it's not so easy".

"So you have to keep in mind that nothing you see here is real," Thor intervened, startling them. "Your past does not determine your future, it does not decide your destiny. They are only ghosts that haunt us, nothing more."

"And the other Sherlock couldn't turn around?" asked Steve.

Stephen crossed a look of understanding with Thor.

"No. Once you enter, you have to cross over to open another portal. The visions won't let you go back. Ready?"

They nodded. Steve held his shield tight and adjusted the helmet, as Tony donned his nanotech Ironman suit. They advanced slowly, silently, Stephen opening the march, followed by Sherlock, Tony, Natasha, Steve, and Thor closing it, looking everywhere, seeing nothing but darkness.

Suddenly a shrieking sound pierced their ears, and something came over them from nowhere. Thor threw Stormbreak towards the sound site. The axe struck it, and something fell to the ground in front of them.

"What the hell is that?"

"A chimera. They know we are here,' replied Stephen, looking at the body lying on the ground, a creature with a body formed by various bits of a lion, a goat, and a serpent.

"This looks like something out of Cargo, the movie," murmured Natasha.

"I assure you it would be easier if they were zombies," replied Thor.

At that moment, ghostly figures materialized around them. Translucent variants of Stephen, Sherlock, Natasha, Tony, Thor, and Stephen, from childhood to adults. Some were well dressed, others with their clothes shattered, some emaciated, other fatter and thinner. They had the sensation of looking at each other in one and a thousand mirrors, his faces reflecting sadness, fear, regret, remorse, fear, loneliness, frustration, anger, grief… Hundreds surrounded them, telling the story of each of their failures.

"What the fuck is this?" Tony asked.

He produced the multi-beam and shot two of them. A version of Sherlock, thin and emaciated, with long, dirty, disheveled hair, wearing a faded, old T-shirt that revealed arms full of syringe scars that tried to hold on to the detective. Another of Natasha, with pronounced jaws and a baleful look, dressed in a K.G.B. uniform who was addressing Natasha by mumbling in Russian, raising an accusing finger.

Stark's shot went through them without doing any damage. They only dissipated for a few seconds to form again. Steve threw his shield, which pierced the figures' waists, blurring them and then reappearing, as the sound of the shield crashing uncontrollably against the walls of the cave reached them.

It was Stephen who, creating a whip, tangled it around the waist of the ragged Sherlock and, with a wave of his hand, threw it into the darkness, while Thor produced a lightning bolt that caused the other Natasha to be swallowed up by the blackness around them as well.

"It's not real," mused a trembling Sherlock. Besides her, he was the only one who understood the woman's accusations, remembering that she was a dangerous killer, before joining the Avengers, a stage she wanted to forget with all her strength.

"Yes, it is," she replied.

"Not anymore," replied the detective.

Natasha blinked and smirked. She nodded. She shrunk with the woman's screams, but she raised her head and squared her shoulders.

"It is true. Not anymore."

"Why can't we kill them?" asked Tony, frustrated, looking around. His scanner was not picking up anything, as F.R.I.D.A.Y. testified. He swallowed when he saw himself as a child, at the age he was when Bucky killed his parents. The boy cast an accusatory look at him.

"Because the past cannot be undone. We can forget it, hold on to it, chain ourselves to it and not move forward, or learn from it and move on."

Stephen created an orange ball that surrounded them, while Thor electrified it from the outside, causing the ghosts that approached it to fly away.

"We must move," Thor ordered, "the spell will not last long here."

They ambled, moving carefully inside the ball, repeating to themselves that what they saw was not real. A few steps later, Peggy, Steve's girlfriend, appeared among the ghosts, holding out her hand.

"You never came to get me," she accused him between sobs.

Steve swallowed and continued walking, trying to ignore the woman's sad face. He saw her hand approaching the electrified barrier Thor created, and his heart shrank. The screams of the spirits that crashed into her were full of pain. He closed his eyes, repeating that she was not her, that hand was not hers, but it was so real...

When Peggy's hand was only a few millimeters from the shield, he could not resist it any longer, and piercing it with his own, Steve took the woman's hand.

"Steve, no!"

Too late. When Steve brushed against his girlfriend's, the ghostly hand transformed into a rope that wrapped around his arm. With a firm tug, she pulled Captain America from the shield, throwing him against the other ghosts of his past, who rushed at him like piranhas, while the orange ball vanished, leaving them at the mercy of the spirits.

"I'm going to get him," shouted Thor. "Take care of them!"

Thor hurled himself to where Steve had disappeared, wielding Stormbreaker hard, knocking out spirits and throwing them left and right, opening a gap for the captain.

Meanwhile, Stephen summoned two blades, throwing one to Sherlock and the other to Natasha, while wrapping Ironman's armor in a spell, so he could fight spirits.

The three set out to combat the spirits that were rushing at them, while Strange multiplied himself, creating whips that sparkled as they collided with the ghosts, making them retreat.

Inside the vault, surrounded by a large group of ghosts from the past, Steve stood up. He let Thor contact his shield with Stormbreaker, electrifying it. He took up a combat stance,

"Let's see if you can play with that," teased Thor.

Steve chuckled.

"Watch and learn,"

He threw the shield, making the spirits that he found in his path vanish, describing a circular orbit around him, to return to his hands. He threw it back to Thor's laughter, who was handing out commandos with the axe. The multiple Stephens bundled groups of ghosts with whips, while Natasha, after coiling herself into one of Strange's lashes, threw her sword at Sherlock and fought body to body against them, tackling and knocking them to the ground, turning, jumping, ducking, dodging spirits and crushing those who came at them.

For his part, Sherlock, a sword in each hand, beat, pierced, and threw away spirits while blocking their attacks. Ironman, for his part, flew, shot, and punched the spirits that hovered over them, vanishing them.

Little by little, they managed to clear the place of them.

"Let's go. We won't be able to hold them for long," urged Stephen with an echo, as his versions folded back on themselves.

They ran at full speed through the ruins, surrounded by the frustrated and crazed ghostly howling, which pushed them to go even faster.

********

"I have to issue the warrant for Sherlock's arrest. I can't delay any longer, Mycroft."

Lestrade sighed. He and Sherlock's older brother were in his office at Scotland Yard. He delayed it as long as he could, but he couldn't skip the proceedings, nor could he obstruct justice himself.

Mycroft lowered his head. He couldn't understand what happened to Sherlock. He kept a close eye on his brother, and since his marriage to John, he achieved greater stability than at any other time in his life.

"Something's not right about all this," he finally said.

Lestrade sighed. He understood that the man cared about his brother, but he could do no more. It was distressing for Lestrade, because working side by side with him, the image of the stupid, haughty busybody of the elder Holmes vanished. True, at first, he behaved as if he were the Chief Constable of Scotland Yard, but soon he respected the DI's procedures and decisions. And though he seemed cold to others' eyes, Lestrade could see in him a genuine concern for his brother.

But his instincts told him that Mycroft was right when he said something didn't add up. True, listening to Donovan, anyone would think Sherlock was a potential serial killer, but the reality indicated otherwise, mostly since he met John. He understood what the British government meant, so why throw it all away? Sherlock would never do that to John. He would never let him down like that. And John would have realized something was up before he let the detective get to it. He knew him best, and he would have noticed the change.

He scratched his head, thoughtful.

"Maybe Anderson is right about the mask?"

"Heaven help us if your forensic's theories start to pan out. But they don't. Here's something else. Something... Have you seen this Avenger and Sherlock? They're identical. They could pose as each other just by changing their hair or goatee".

"You think the Avengers set him up? What reason would they have?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"What if there's a third party?"

"A third party?"

"Yes, a third like Sherlock, or the other, but in the end, like Sherlock. My brother wasn't even in London when the last murder happened."

"The picture wasn't rigged."

"That's why. You have seen, as I have, two Sherlocks. Why not a third?"

"How?"

"I don't know. Surgery? Witchcraft?" he frowned. "What if Strange created it? He is the Supreme Sorcerer. I'm sure he can do that."

"Mycroft..."

"No, but it doesn't make sense, because they are both together. So... the only explanation is that there is another Sherlock. Where did he come from? I don't know. Why? Neither do I, but..."

"But that's impossible, Mycroft.

"I hate to quote my brother, but, when you eliminate the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I don't know how, but there's another Sherlock," he got up from his chair, "let's go to Baker Street. Maybe we missed something."

Lestrade looked at him in amazement. Mycroft looked at him, impatient.

"What?"

"Brilliant."

Mycroft cocked his head to the side and cleared his throat gently. Lestrade bit his lip to disguise a smile. Both brothers melted with compliments on their genius. Probably because people used to address them with other kinds of epithets more along the lines of freak or pain in the ass. Had he allowed himself to be a little more human, the DI was sure that Sherlock's brother would have blushed. In the end, it was going to turn out that Mycroft Holmes had a heart somewhere too...

"Let's go over there," he took his coat and went after Mycroft. They both walked between the tables as the officers watched them.

Donovan got up, ran after Lestrade, and grabbed his arm.

"He is messing with you, Greg. Can't you see he just wants to keep his brother out of jail?"

"You are wrong. If Mycroft has to, he will. And so will I."

Donovan shook his head and sat back down at his table, fuming. How could Lestrade trust the Freak's brother? Another Freak, though she would never say it to his face as she did to Sherlock. Too powerful. She looked at Lestrade for a few seconds.

"Oh, shit," she mumbled, noting the familiarity with which they both walked to the exit.

"What's wrong?" asked one of the officers.

"We are screwed."

*******

Several spirits surrounded Sherlock. The detective was about to strike a blow at one of them when the ghosts around him went rigid.

"You..." whispered one of them with a ghostly echo. It was similar to Sherlock, the only difference, a great wound in his skull, blood falling on his face.

On hearing it, the other spirits stopped fighting and focused their attention on the one who had spoken. Sherlock looked at Stephen, puzzled. Strange frowned and looked at Thor.

"You can't be here," declared the ghost.

"What is it now?" asked Tony.

"Whoever enters here never returns," answered Thor. "They don't understand how you can be here again."

"Worse still," said Strange, "they know it's not you."

"And I guess that is not good, for a change," grunted Tony.

The ghosts of the past looked at each other, puzzled, and began to disappear, howling with rage, the frightful voices bouncing around the place. Strong gusts of wind blew, with such intensity that they had to hold on to each other not to fall, except Thor, who remained firmly on the ground despite the air force.

"What is it?" shouted Sherlock to make himself heard above the roar of the wind.

"They are blurring the inter-dimensional boundaries," answered Strange.

He turned his hands in the air, producing two green rings that swirled around his wrists counter-clockwise. The wind seemed to calm down a bit, while Stephen turned one of the wheels on his wrist with great effort. His cape, flapping in the wind behind him, clung to the Stormbreaker.

Strange clenched his teeth, sweating from the effort to rotate the rings backward. Suddenly the green rings burst into a thousand pieces, and the wind blew even harder.

"I can't reverse it," he shouted, frustrated to make himself heard over the wind's loud howling." I can't reverse the singularity of the same timeline I created. We have to get out of here," he marched, fighting the mighty wind that pushed him back.

Hardly, in line to put up as little resistance to the air as possible, they advanced towards a yellowish light at what seemed to be the dome's end.

"What happens when the boundaries between dimensions are blurred?" asked Natasha.

"Chaos," answered Tony.

Stephen looked at him with a scowl. Tony raised an eyebrow.

"Until now, two or more realities could share the same space without being visible to each other, each in a dimension," answered Stephen, "with the inter-dimensional boundaries blurred, both dimensions will come into contact."

"And what will happen?" asked Natasha, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"Nobody knows," answered Stephen.

Thor nodded.

"It never happened before. Sometimes portals are opened, and beings from other dimensions invade ours, or we can go to the other. But until now, they have never coexisted."

"Congratulations, Strange," grunted Tony. "You have created chaos hitherto undreamt of." he ironized, mimicking Stephen.

"Will it happen in the whole universe?" asked Steve.

Stephen gestured to Sherlock.

"It takes a lot of energy to dissolve inter-dimensional boundaries, and the universe tends to hold on to it. But your alter ego and Ross could be anywhere".

"Baker Street," blurted out the detective.

Stephen stopped, and he frowned.

"How do you know?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I know."

"Quantum entanglement," cried Tony through the wind's hooting "in quantum physics, entangled particles remain connected so that actions performed on one affect the other, even when separated by great distances. Our Sherlock and the others are connected by it. This is how he knew where the other is".

"Couldn't you have said that before? We could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble.", growled Steve.

"He couldn't until the inter-dimensional boundaries were drawn. Which means he is, as he says, in Baker Street, but in another dimension."

"Let's go there," Steve said. "It's empty now, so it wouldn't be a problem."

Thor cleared his throat. The others turned to him.

"Doctor Watson and Peter are there."

Sherlock looked at him, horrified.

"How could you let Peter go there?" cried Tony, his voice trailed evident panic.

"Bruce and Clint gave him permission. Before I came, Clint was contacting Wong to open a portal. The boy is a fan of yours and wanted to see if you had any heads in the refrigerator," he repeated Peter's words with some derision.

The others looked at Sherlock in disbelief.

"It was only once," snarled the detective. "Where was I going to put it? On the couch?"

"Besides, he was with Doctor Watson. With the bad blood he has, they are fucked" he gestured to the spirits.

"This just keeps getting better and better," Tony ironized. He turned to Strange.

"When this is all over, we will lay down some rules for when you play with your green stone, got it?"

"Keep dreaming," growled Stephen.

They kept walking as the ghosts of the past swirled around him faster and faster, making them move forward more slowly.

********

Everett looked at Donovan, lying on the ground, and then at Sherlock.

"We have to help her."

The detective shook his head.

"We can't leave her there, Holmes,... if she dies..."

"If she dies, it serves her right for trying to break us up."

The C.I.A. agent shook his head.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I can't let anyone die. I took an oath to save lives," he swallowed. He could see Donovan's chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly. If they didn't help her, she would die. On the other hand, this was the perfect opportunity to get Sherlock to untie him. "You can't make me carry that around on my conscience. How am I going to practice medicine after...?"

"All right, all right!" shouted the detective, exasperated, "you and your professional pride. She doesn't deserve your help, but..."

He walked up to Everett and unlocked his handcuffs. With a quick movement, he grabbed the gun the detective had left on the table upside down and pointed it at his head.

"John," gasped Sherlock, "what... what are you doing?"

"Shut up and listen to me," he unlocked the safety gun and rested the barrel on the detective's forehead.

*********

"No, no, Sherlock doesn't guess. He deduces," laughed John, sitting on the couch next to Peter, correcting the word in the article Peter was writing.

"But Mr. Holmes doesn't read his blog..."

"So he says. But he does. He criticizes it, but he loves it. When I wrote he didn't know the Earth revolved around the Sun, I found a human head in the fridge. I don't even want to think what I will find if you write he guesses instead of deducing..."

They both laughed.

Suddenly, in the living room, Holmes and Ross materialized as if from nowhere near the fireplace. The detective was looking at Everett with his eyes out of his head. Although Ross rested his gun's barrel on his head, Sherlock's gaze contained no fear, but surprise, betrayal, pain, and confusion. Everett was so focused on the detective that he didn't realize the doctor and Peter were there.

John stood up without a sound and grabbed his gun.

"You are going to..." started Everett.

He fell silent, noticing the barrel of another gun resting on his nape, swallowing with difficulty. He saw Holmes' eyes opening even wider, looking at the man behind him as if he were a ghost.

"Move a muscle, and I'll blow your head off," snarled John, "throw the gun on the ground, slowly."

"John?" asked Holmes, absolutely overwhelmed, looking at one and the other, alternately. "But what…?"

Ross noticed the pressure on the back of his neck decreased for a moment because of the doctor's bewilderment at the detective's reaction. He turned in one quick motion so that the gun was at the level of his attacker's head. When Ross saw him, he almost dropped the gun. He was pointing it at himself, a version of him wearing a jumper that Everett wouldn't wear in his whole life, but the rest was him. The same determined, grim look, and a similar resolution to pull the trigger without a doubt at it if necessary.

Facing each other, John Watson and Everet Ross pointed a gun at each other, while the look of a mute Holmes went quickly from one to the other.

"Doctor Watson!" cried Peter.

John motioned for him to be quiet.

"It's all right, Peter, don't worry. Everything's under control".

"Don't intervene, Peter," Everett ordered.

"John!" shouted Holmes looking at them both, "What the hell is going on?"

"Calm down, Sherlock, it's all right," replied John. "He's not John. I am John. He's Everett Ross, a C.I.A. agent."

"Put the gun down, Doctor Watson."

"Not before you do."

Peter licked his lips nervously, not knowing what to do. He was afraid that the other would shoot by throwing his web or jumping on one of them.

Both remained motionless, the weapon firmly held against the other's head, without blinking, without moving a muscle, neither willing to lower the gun.

The door burst open. Lestrade, gun in hand, stumbled over Donovan's body lying on the floor.

"Put your guns down!" he shouted as Mycroft took the sergeant's pulse and shook his head.

"John, and... the other John, put your guns down!" repeated the DI.

"Stay out of this, Greg," the doctor ordered.

Peter put his hands up.

"We didn't shoot her, Sir, I swear to you."

"This lunatic killed her." Everett nodded to Sherlock.

"Watch your mouth, Ross," hissed John.

"Sherlock, you have to stop this madness," implored Mycroft. "Don't worry, I will get help."

Sherlock breathed heavily through his mouth, teeth clenched.

"I don't need anyone's help. Least of all yours. I just need John. Don't you understand?" he banged his head repeatedly as if to get rid of something inside it. "I need John!!!" he howled.

"You have John," replied Lestrade, "you two are married."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, he married Mary. I saw him. I was there. I was his best man. I even proposed, but he chose Mary."

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" John asked, distressed.

He gulped, pointing at Ross. What was wrong with Sherlock? When he left with Strange, he was fine, and now... had he killed Donovan? His mouth was dry. That couldn't be happening. But there, out of nowhere, the body of the sergeant, Sherlock, and Ross had appeared. Had he gone through some Strange's portal, killed Sally, and found Ross?

"John, Everett, put down your..."

A strong wind blew into it. Papers and books flew in all directions around the room, crashing into the walls and bumping into them, as a yellow-greyish mist shrouded John and Everett, swirling around them like a tornado. Neither of them moved the gun from the other's head; neither of them made the slightest move or said a word. They just exchanged a glance when they understood what they were seeing.

A second later, Strange, followed by Sherlock, Ironman, Natasha, Thor, and Captain America entered the room.

"But what on earth is going on here?" asked Mycroft, doubting whether he was going mad in that room with two Sherlocks, two Johns, and five Avengers.

"Mr. Stark!" shouted Peter, in jubilation, but lowered his head when Stark dropped his helmet and left his face visible, a massive gesture of irritation and concern written on it.

"You, both, put the guns down," ordered Strange.

"Who is John. Who is the real John." hissed the detective, madly.

He produced another weapon, took the gun's safety, and pointed it at Everett's face.

The doctor pressed his lips. In the detective's alter ego look, he could read that he would kill Everett as soon as he got over that it wasn't him. In the meantime, they both had a chance.

The Sherlock who show up with the Avengers stepped forward. He stopped when his alter ego moved the gun to John. Sherlock raised his hands.

"Put the gun down, please."

Holmes shook his head, his gaze jumping from Everett to Ross. Even Everett pitied the detective for a moment. His face reflected tremendous confusion, deep pain; he felt lost, despondent, desperate, maddened by losing the love of his life.

"No... I need John."

"We are with John now," whispered Sherlock.

Holmes shook his head.

"If you don't tell me who he is, I'll kill them both."

"We cannot shoot him? We're the Avengers, damn it!" snapped Captain America.

"He would shoot them both before they hit the ground. He's too fast. And since he is in a dimension that is not his own, we don't know what will happen," grumbled the Sorcerer Supreme.

John's gaze flickered from Strange to Everett to the Holmes, who was aiming at them. The former C.I.A. agent imitated him.

They looked sideways at Peter, who frowned, watching them and trying to keep a low profile.

John's gaze traveled back from Peter to Strange, and Everett's from Peter to the detective aiming at them.

"Peter's pulse is racing," announced F.R.I.D.A.Y. over the intercom, causing Ironman to turn to Peter. He looked at him, then at Strange, then at John again.

Tony shook his head imperceptibly, frowning, looking at John, who pressed his lips. Strange closed his eyes for a moment, a tense silence filling the room. He waved his hands to complete a spell, freezing them but John, Everett, and him.

"How long have you known?" he asked the doctor.

"We envisioned the future when the two dimensions came together," answered John and looked at the Sherlock that was with the Avengers, "I have to do it. He gave up everything for me."

"It was his choice."

"I know. And this is mine".

"And yours?" he asked Everett, softly.

For a moment, he was tempted to ask Ross not to follow John..., but he knew that was their only chance to fix everything.

"We are soldiers," Everett looked intently at him, and then and John, "our lives do not matter."

John nodded, squaring off with a martial air.

Strange closed his eyes.

"Yours matter to me," he blurted, frowning, surprised at his own audacity and clenched his teeth to prevent himself from revealing of his feelings "and yours," he addressed to John "matters to him."

The doctor went up to Sherlock and stroked his cheek in a gesture of infinite sadness and tenderness.

"There is no other way? You control time. You did it once." he asked, his voice full of hope and sorrow.

"And look how it ended. Mordo warned me. Breaking the natural laws has a price. The bill comes due. Always. This happened the first time. The second... even I am unable to foresee the consequences. I'm really sorry, but..."

John swallowed with difficulty.

"Will he be all right?" he looked back at Sherlock.

"Once the other Sherlock is back in his dimension, I can close the singularity and reverse everything. This Sherlock will fade away, like everything that happened since I changed the past." Strange shook his head. He looked at Everett. "I'm sorry this is how it ends."

Everett nodded. He looked intently at Strange and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. Anyway, it was too late. It wasn't worth talking about yet. John and Ross nodded sadly and looked at each other.

"Soldiers?" asked John.

Ross smirked.

"Soldiers."

Strange made a hand gesture, which John interpreted as a goodbye. Time was running out. He turned to Sherlock and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Goodbye, my madman. You've saved my life literally and metaphorically more times than I can count. I owe you so much… It's my turn to return you the favor."

Both inhaled and stood up near the armed detective again, pointing each other with the guns.

Stephen defrosted the place. A portal opened to the ghost cavern. John gave Holmes a hard push, and the two of them flew into the ghost vault of the past. In a quick movement, the alter ego grabbed Everett by the shirt, dragging him with them.

"Jooooooooooohn, no!" shouted Sherlock, running after the doctor, straight to the portal. Ironman pushed him, slamming the detective against the wall. Grunting in pain, he rose again, but Ironman flew at him, pinning him down.

Lestrade raised his weapon, ready to shoot Ironman, as Sherlock struggled desperately, seeing the portal closing. Desperate, he punched and kicked Ironman, ignoring the pain of hitting the nanosuit, until Tony held him down to keep him from hurting himself further. Mycroft forced Lestrade to put his arm down. He could shot Sherlock.

"Please," Sherlock begged, desperately, squirming under Ironman, trying to free himself, "please, Tony. I have to go get him. I have to save John."

When the portal was almost closed, Thor threw his axe, blocking it, and jumped in, carrying two swords summoned by Strange, while Peter threw a web that tied around his waist and, pulling out his spider legs, stuck them to the wall, holding the God of Thunder.

Inside the portal, ghosts of the past wailed, howling around Everett, Sherlock, and John, circling each one until they almost disappeared.

"Ross!" cried Thor, hurling one sword at him.

The C.I.A. agent grabbed it and began to push the spirits away with all his might, trying to advance to John, but failing to do so.

Holmes lowered his gun and looked at John. The wind blew his hair, and his coat fluttered around, but he seemed not to perceive the ghosts of his past, willing to destroy him at any time.

"You came with me," he said, at last, his gesture of madness transformed into relief and a hint of happiness.

John nodded.

"You and I alone against the world, remember? Together, in any universe."

The ghosts of John and Sherlock's past spun slowly and began to fade while Everett and Thor continued to fight their own.

As ghosts slowed down, Holmes's gaze slowly came into focus, sadness, and anguish fading away. He looked back at John.

"In any universe," he repeated. The spirits were now fading quickly. "I don't deserve you, John."

"Nor I deserve you. But that's why we're perfect for each other".

Sherlock smiled, eyes full of happy tears.

"Is it working?" panted Ross, piercing spirits with the sword, knocking and slamming others.

Thor nodded.

"This version of Sherlock jumped in here to help him get John. It's already done. They both are going back to his dimension."

Everett frowned while beating down spirits, who whispered Strange's name repeatedly, any time higher.

Everett gasped, not understanding why Thor didn't give him a hand. He stood motionless, watching him as he wrestled with more versions of himself with the same agonizing look that the detective had until now.

Thor nodded.

"And you?"

"I am here for you. And for Strange."

"Why?"

"Because you are a couple of idiots who are going to end up like those two. Sneaking around, sighing for each other and both a couple of cowards, unable to confess to each other".

Everett plunged the blade into several spirits, driving them away momentarily.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Come on, Everett," he turned to Sherlock, "do you want to end up like him? "

Ross lowered his head. The ghosts of his past surrounded him without attacking him, almost expectantly, whispering.

"Stephen doesn't even know I exist."

Thor raised his hands to the sky.

"It makes me want to kick your ass and send you to Asgard. He doesn't notice you? Showing up at the Avengers' facilities when he knows you are there? You look like two teenagers playing hooky in high school!"

"What if he says no?"

"Well, if he says no, you just assume it and move on. But you can't go through life like that without getting Schrodinger's cat out of the box. Maybe he'll say no. But what if he says yes? Or what do you prefer? Spend your life pining for what could have been?"

"It's easier."

"And it leads to nothing but filling this place with ghosts."

He shook his head in Sherlock and John's direction, who were walking away from a portal opened in one of the semi-ruined castles.

They reached the bottom of the castle and began to climb up the wall to it, holding their hands, with no ghosts bothering them. Once ahead, John stepped aside for Sherlock's alter ego to enter. As he did so, the portal closed behind him. The howling and wailing of the spirits through the vault increased as their ghosts slowly surrounded him.

Thor tugged at Peter's web. John turned to Everett and Thor, smiled, and took his hand to his forehead in farewell. Thor raised his axe in a farewell gesture.

"Don't be stupid, Everett," he shouted and motioned to disappear in the portal behind Holmes.

In the living room at Baker Street, Peter noticed Thor tugging at the web twice. He began to pull on it with all his strength, trying to bring back the God of Thunder and Everett, without managing to move them one inch inward.

Strange, producing wheels of time in his sleeves, began to spin backward. Steve chuckled and approached Peter. He tugged at the web very hard, and they jumped in as the portal closed, Thor holding John and Everett by the ankle.

"John!" cried Sherlock, struggling frantically to break free. Ironman let him go, and the detective ran to John. They hugged tightly. Sherlock, almost crying, kissed him, hugged him again, caressed his hair, moved away from a little, and kissed him again as fearing he could disappear. The doctor laughed, happy, kissing him back, unable to believe they were together, looking perplexed at Strange.

Mycroft and Lestrade watched in amazement as Donovan sizzled and slowly dissolved until she disappeared.

"But what...?"

"I'll explain later," smiled Stephen.

He looked sideways at Everett, who was staring at him. His cloak stood in front of him, crossing the ends, like an angry father.

"You're a cheater, Strange," grinned Ironman. "You reversed everything but them. That's not fair."

The Sorcerer Supreme shrugged, smirking.

"What about the price to be paid? The murders? The... dimensions?" asked John, hugging Sherlock tightly.

"Quantum entanglement."

Strange smiled smugly, and Tony rolled his eyes, while Natasha and Steve chuckled, shaking their heads.

"I'll explain it later," he looked at Spiderman, "great job, k... Peter".

Peter smiled widely.


	6. God, I love the Avengers

"I think you owe us an explanation, Mr. Strange," grunted Mycroft. 

"Doctor Strange" interrupted him in chorus with Sherlock, John, Peter, and Tony. 

"My brother is under arrest warrants from New Scotland Yard, the FBI, and Interpol. As you will understand, what you want to be called is not at all relevant to me at this time". 

"Sit down and shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock ordered. 

"That's right, sit down and shut up, you petulant fool," snarled Tony. 

"Look who's talking," Steve whispered in Bruce's ear, and they both laughed, amused. They stopped when Tony looked at them, raising his eyebrow. 

John looked around. If the Baker Street living room always was quite unusual, now with he, Sherlock, Everett, Stephen, Mycroft, Lestrade, Tony, Thor, Steve, Peter, and Natasha, who had been joined by Wong, Clint, and Bruce from New York, was bordering on unreality. He would have loved to take a picture and post it on the blog, but he didn't want to imagine the media hype that would ensue if he did. 

He was sitting on the arm of Sherlock's armchair, where the detective sat, both holding their hands, still fearing that something might separate them again. Although Stephen looked totally relaxed and confident, neither of them were calm after playing with time.

Mycroft usurped his armchair. At first, he thought that the presence of the Avengers intimidated him into doing so with Sherlock's, as he used to do to annoy him when he visited him in Baker Street. Still, he realized that he sat on it after Lestrade leaned on the chair's arm, and both were physically very close and unusually relaxed. And not just relaxed. Mycroft was... happy if that expression could be applied to the British Government. He had even, at some point, smiled at Lestrade. 

Twenty-four hours ago, he would have said it was impossible, but after what happened, nothing seemed strange to him anymore. Not even that Mycroft's heart, the Iceman, as Moriarty called him, melted every time his gaze crossed Lestrade's. A Lestrade who, for his part, had no qualms about occasionally brushing against Mycroft's hand, as if by chance, making Sherlock's brother blush to the core. Who would have thought that the British Government could blush? 

"But what about us?" asked John and squeezed Sherlock's hand to reassure him. 

"Well, you said it yourself to the other Sherlock, Doctor Watson: in any universe". 

The others looked at him without understanding, except Wong, Tony, and Bruce, who smiled and nodded slightly. 

"An ancient Chinese legend says "began Stephen "that there is an old matchmaker God, Yuè Xià Lǎorén, who goes out every night to look for the souls that are destined to be together on Earth. Once he finds them, he links them with a red thread tied to the little finger of each one".

He looked sideways at Everett when he felt his gaze on him, lowered his head, and cleared his throat a couple of times, trying to pick up the thread. 

"The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The red string might get tangled or stretched, but it can never break".

The others stared at him with open mouths for a few seconds. Mycroft frowned, boiling with anger. 

"Soul mates?" he asked disdainfully. "Are you talking about soul mates?

"Shut up, Mycroft!" they all shouted in chorus. 

Sherlock's brother pursed his lips and opened his mouth to assert his authority, but closed it when Lestrade put his hand on his thigh. 

"Let's wait and see what that has to do with John and Sherlock, shall we?" he asked softly, a smile dancing in his eyes. "Soul mates," he whispered, tapping him gently on his shoulder and intently looking at him. 

Mycroft's angry gesture vanished, and his face softened, looking at him. John and Sherlock exchanged a mocking glance, while it was evident that the elder Holmes was struggling to pull himself together and avoid getting lost in Lestrade's bright, loving gaze.

Mycroft cleared his throat. 

"I'm sorry, Doctor Strange, please continue." 

"Yes, please continue," asked Peter. "What does that have to do with quantum entanglement?"

"Albert Einstein discovered that particles in the universe have an amazing capacity, so much so that he defined it as "spooky action at a distance." This effect causes two quantum entangled particles to be linked, connected, even though they are thousands of light-years apart so that what affects one influences the other. This would be the scientific explanation of the legend I told you before, that of the twin souls, as our Grumpy Holmes has pointed out. The red thread of destiny would be a way of referring to quantum entanglement and, as Doctor Watson will well know..."

"The ulnar artery directly connects the pinky finger to the heart," John concluded, astonishment in his voice.

Stephen nodded. 

"So the red thread of destiny connects the pinky fingers of both lovers" he unconsciously ran his finger over his and seemed to lose himself in a dream for a few seconds until he came back to reality.

If he had been looking at Everett, he would have realized that he had been doing the same thing, also unconsciously wishing fervently that his red thread was attached to Stephen's finger. But both, fearing to see the rejection in the other's eyes, avoided looking at each other 

"This legend came to my mind when Doctor Watson told the other Sherlock that they would be together in any universe," he turned to Sherlock and John. "I visualized millions of alternate universes. In some, you know each other when you are children, or in high school, older in others. In some, you are a couple from the beginning; in others, you go through many more vicissitudes, years apart, fights, disagreements...; in some, you are not even a doctor and a consulting detective".

Sherlock snorted at the possibility of not being a consulting detective. 

"Believe me, Sherlock is like that. But in all of them, no matter how long it took or how many obstacles you had to overcome, you end up together. Therefore, not making you go back in time, as I did with all that the other Sherlock caused, did not alter the universe. You are meant to be together. It doesn't matter how, when, or where. No price to pay, no debt to the universe..., the balance remains. You are... quantum entangled, so to speak". 

Sherlock and John looked at each other. The detective, overwhelmed and somewhat embarrassed, blinking as he tried to keep his eyes from filling with tears, the doctor overwhelmed with emotion, both about to explode with love for each other. 

"I wished to have been in one of those universes where I knew you since you were a child," the doctor mused, "so that I could have been by your side since then." 

"Damn, John," murmured Sherlock. 

The two melted into a passionate kiss, John wrapping his hand around Sherlock's hair, the detective, embracing the doctor, forgetting everything and everyone, time, space, the past, and the future. Only they existed, the here and now. Almost breathlessly, they undid the kiss, their foreheads together, both lost in each other's eyes until they became aware of their surroundings. They parted, their cheeks reddened. 

"I'm sorry," John muttered as Sherlock tossed his hair around, looking like he wanted to be swallowed up by the earth. He was not used to such public displays of affection. 

He came out of his stupor when John gently nudged him. Following his gaze, he saw Mycroft and Greg gently brushing their little fingers on theirs left hands as tryinf to find the thread that bound them together. It was Mycroft's turn to hawk and separate Lestrade's finger as if it was burning when he noticed the others looking at them. 

"This is all very enriching," he muttered, forcing himself to look away from the DI.

Somehow, looking at him clouded his thinking like it had never happened before.

"But, as I said before, my brother is under several arrest warrants. And I don't think a Chinese old wives' tale or Einstein's discoveries will help him with that", he ended on a sour note. 

Stephen didn't take it badly. He knew what drove him to behave that way was a sincere concern for Sherlock. 

"Detective Inspector, could you call Sergeant Donovan and ask her for a copy of the arrest warrants?"

"To Donovan?" Greg frowned, recalling the lying body of the officer, "But she is..."

"Please. Put the phone on speakerphone". 

Lestrade sighed. He put the phone on the table, pressed the call button, and activated the speakerphone, confident that it would go to voice mail. He couldn't help but jump when he heard the sergeant's voice on the other end. 

"Greg, where the hell have you been?"

"S... Sally, are you okay?"

There was a little silence. 

"Perfectly. Why wouldn't I be?"

"No, nothing, Only asking." 

"I would ask you if you have been drinking, but since you are with the eldest Holmes, the question is: has he drugged you, and is he holding you against your will? If so, tell me to look for something in your office".

The sergeant's perplexity at the general's laughter was palpable over the phone. 

"No, I'm fine," Greg smiled.

"First, John and now you," grunted Sally, "it's spooky." 

A new laugh, remembering Stephen's words about Einstein's spooky action. 

"Sally, is there anything new in the case of the murdered longshoremen?"

They heard the sergeant stirring up papers. 

"We don't have a case about murdered dockworkers. Why would anyone want to kill them?"

"Or anything about Sherlock?"

"You mean besides being a freak and a total asshole? No, I don't think so. Greg, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Thanks Sally." 

"If you need help and can't talk..".

Lestrade cut her off amidst the other's laughter. He looked at Stephen in amazement. 

"There is no case. No victims, no arrest warrant...". 

"Everything disappeared when Sherlock went back in time, like everything related to him." 

"And how is this possible? I mean, time cannot be compartmentalized", Everett frowned. He looked at Strange shyly and lowered his gaze.

"Time is a dimension like any other. Each dimension has its own time. You can freeze in one and go back in the rest. That is why you can die in one dimension, the one the other Sherlock brought with him, and still be alive in this one, as it has happened to Donovan and the other victims. So, my dear Mycroft, you have nothing to worry about. Your dear brother can continue to get into trouble as he has done up to now. 

"Hey," protested Sherlock, and the others laughed. 

"Can I take a souvenir photo?" asked Peter, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. 

The others nodded and rearranged themselves for the photo: Sherlock and John in one armchair, Mycroft and Lestrade in another, and the others between the two armchairs. Peter set the timer and ran to stand next to John. 

"Say cheese!"

"Cheese!" said all, except Sherlock and Mycroft, that remained serious. 

"Really, you're impossible." sighed both Lestrade and John.

"It doesn't matter, it's great!" smiled Peter, putting his cell phone in his pocket.

"Time to go home. This visit to London has been great, but duty calls" said Thor, standing up.

The others looked at him in surprise. The thunder god raised his eyebrows and made an imperceptible gesture with his head. 

"Oh yes, it's true," Tony stood up too "FRIDAY is recruiting us, for..., the duty that calls us". 

He opened the flat door, and Natasha, Thor, Peter, Steve, Clint, Brue, and Wong came out. Behind them, John, pulling Sherlock who was protesting because he had to do an experiment, and Lestrade, pushing an annoyed Mycroft. Tony sighed, rolling his eyes, and before Everett reached the door, he came out, slamming the door behind him. 

They crowded around to listen behind it, while Mycroft and Sherlock remained on the foyer, completely unsettled

"But what on earth are you doing?" asked Mycroft. 

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, shut up, Mycroft!" they all whispered imperiously. 

The Holmes brothers looked at each other, shrugging, intrigued, while the rest, bent over at different heights, had their ears glued to the door. 

Inside the flat, Everett stared at the door, not fully understanding whatjust happened. He tried to open it but did not give in, because Steven was pulling it from the other side, so hard that its hinges cracked. 

"I'll kill you all," Everett mumbled. 

Nervous, angry, and not knowing what to do, he turned to look at Stephen, who was trying to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle in his cloak, until the Levitation cloak slapped him with one of its ends and went near the coat rack where Sherlock's coat was hanging. 

"It seems that we have been left alone," he mused and closed his eyes. Could someone be more stupid?"

"Yes, yes, it seems so," Everett muttered, mentally whipping himself into a frenzy over his observation's absurdity. 

An uncomfortable silence followed as the two of them looked around the room. 

"That... hum... that..." Everett stammered. 

God, he was making a complete fool of himself. He cleared his throat, trying to form a coherent speech in his head before opening his mouth. Although he didn't know if he could speak. His hands were sweating, his throat was dry, and he was breathing heavily, so much so that he felt slightly dizzy. God. Could someone be less seductive? 

Stephen, for his part, looked at him, waiting for him to continue. He would have wanted to talk, but his voice wouldn't come out. He looked sideways at the door, thinking about creating a portal and run away from there. God, he was terrified.

Everett closed his eyes, summoning up the courage to say what he had been silent about for so long. If he didn't do it now, he would never do it. He worried his lower lip, thoughtful and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and mental run, just like an athlete would do before the long jump. The difference, his was a leap into the void, a fall into an abyss from which only Stephen could save him. 

"That..., legend is... hum nice. The... twin flames..., I mean...". 

"Yes..." Stephen muttered, swallowing hard. 

An infinite sadness came over him as he realized Everett was trying to explain to him he already had a soul mate. If he had wanted to, he would have seen the future, known in advance what the former CIA agent tried to tell him. But he chose not to. Listening to him with an already broken heart would be much harder. 

Everett cleared his throat, cursing to himself. Stephen surely already visualized the future and knew what he was going to say. Damn it. If he didn't help him, it was because he was in a relationship with Stark. Stark was his soul mate. And now he was coming to make amends to fate? That was not a good idea. He had nothing to offer. It was a silly thing to do. 

Stephen decided he didn't want to hear it; he couldn't. If Everett talked, it would take away the only thing he had left: his daydreams. Knowing the truth would take that away.

And he didn't know if he could take it. 

He turned to the door, racking his brains, trying to remember a spell that would heal a broken heart.

But before he could get to it, his cloak came between him and the door and pointed imperatively to Everett, who, realizing Stephen was leaving, had turned to the fireplace.

Stephen inhaled. The levitation cloak was right. It was now or never. 

"You..., you think you have a... well..., a soul... twin?"

It wasn't just the question that made him turn, but the trembling tone with which Stephen formulated it. He turned to look at him. The mighty Sorcerer seemed to have shrunk, staring at the floor, not daring to look at him, scratching his head nervously. 

Everett took a breath.

It was now or never.

"I want to believe that he did. But..., I get the impression that..., the universe has been wrong about me". 

Stephen looked at him, blankly. 

"It seems that... my thread is attached to someone who..." he took a deep breath. God, why was that so difficult? Why was he so scared? He had been in the war, he fought for Wakanda, he defied dangers that any other human being would have turned his hair white without blinking... and there he was, scared as a puppy on a stormy night, at the thought of confessing to Stephen. 

"I know I have no right to tell you this that it is not fair because you are with Tony, but... I... No, I was going to say that I like you, but it's much more than that. I love you, Stephen Strange. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you at Avengers Facilities, talking with your smug, know-it-all asshole air. Since that day..., since that day I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. And God knows I've tried, because... well, you're totally out of my league. You just have to look at yourself and look at me. I'm not a God, I don't have superpowers or a supercool nanosuit, I'm not even tall. But, as much as I tried to forget you, as soon as I got careless, I began to daydream. When I fell asleep, I dream about you: I see us walking, laughing, making love..." he blushed and lowered his head. 

"With Tony?" gaped Stephen. "I'm not with Tony." 

"I know I don't have much to offer, but… what?" 

"Are you in love with me?" 

Everett bowed his head and narrowed his eyes. He knew Stephen and that he would make fun of him, of his feelings. He would crush him. He and Tony would laugh at him later on. But Everett was a soldier, and he knew that once an attack was launched, the only way to win the battle was to go all the way, no matter what. 

He nodded. 

Stephen approached him slowly, his blue-green eyes scanning Everett's blue ones, looking for any hint that this was a form of bad taste orchestrated by Tony. 

"You may not have powers, or a super cool nanosuit, or be tall, or a god," Everett lowered his head, "but you're smart, strong, brave, loyal, and you fight for your ideals. You wouldn't hesitate to give your life to them, fight against injustice, or, as you did before, to help those in need, like John and Sherlock. And it is much more valuable precisely because you have no powers, no nanosuit, and you are not a god. That's what makes you great and incredible, and what makes you so far above us, above me". 

The former CIA agent raised his head in surprise. He opened his mouth, but Stephen stopped him with a gesture. To Everett's surprise, he started to sing, his voice deep, velvety, a little shaky, enveloping him with the same warmth of a hug. 

" _A candy-colored clown they call the sandman_

_Tiptoes to my room every night_

_Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper_

_"Go to sleep. Everything is all right."_

Everett blinked, wondering if all that wasn't indeed a dream. He recognized the first verse of Roy Orbison's song _In Dreams_ , but his brain could not believe that Stephen was there, standing there, singing to him, slowly approaching him to the rhythm of the music, with the caution of one who approaches what he has always dreamed of, but fears will vanish into thin air as he touches it like a soap bubble. Everett took a step towards him because if he sang to him, it meant that...

_I close my eyes, then I drift away_

_Into the magic night, I softly say_

_A silent prayer like dreamers do_

_Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you_

Stephen took another step towards Everett, who imitated him, and the two were face to face. The ex-CIA agent hesitated for a few moments, but when he noticed Stephen took a breath to continue singing, he joined him, both mentally thanking Roy Orbison for putting into words what they had had so much trouble saying: 

_In dreams, I walk with you_

_In dreams, I talk to you_

Both looked at each other gaped when the music of violins, drums, acoustic guitar, and piano began to play from Natasha's mobile, enveloped them, drawing them to each other, moving slowly, almost without realizing it, afraid to break that moment, but eager to reach out to each other.

Stephen took up the song again, followed by Everett, and they embraced, dancing softly to the rhythm of the music, plungingi nto each other's eyes, their voices in perfect harmony. 

_In dreams, you're mine_

_all of the time_

_We're together in_

_dreams, in dreams_

_But just before the dawn_

_I awake and find you gone_

_I can't help it, I can help it_

_if I cry_

Both stopped singing, their bodies rocking to the rhythm of the music. 

"Please don't disappear before the dawn again," Stephen mused, resting his forehead on Everett's, a mute, desperate, and vulnerable plead in his eyes that he closed after speak. 

Ross melted at his look. He was going to answer that he had nothing to worry about, that the next one would be by his side and all the dawns he had left to live, that he didn't want to spend a second without him. But he understood that none of the words he could say would express the magnitude of what he felt for him. 

So he turned his head slightly and pressed his lips to Stephen. 

The Supreme Sorcerer opened his eyes, surprised by the kiss, by the softness of Everett's lips rubbing against his own. He made a gesture of turning away from the unexpected rush of nervousness and shock that passed through him. Everett ran his hand down the back of his neck, grabbing his hair, and Stephen melted in the kiss, letting himself be enveloped by the shriek of pleasure that ran through him then, closing his eyes, kissing him back, cursing himself for not having done it before, for so many wasted kisses, so much time lost in fear and insecurity. 

"Don't worry," Everett whispered without breaking the kiss. The same idea crossed his mind "We have all our lives to make up for the lost time." 

He smiled as he noticed Stephen smiled into their kiss, and both deepened the kiss. Everett sucked Stephen's lower lip slightly, and he parted his lips, letting Everett's tongue explore his mouth. The Supreme Sorcerer hummed deep in his throat, and a chill run down Everett's spine. They broke the kiss, both a bit overwhelmed of finally being kissing each other but kept their noses rubbing each other, not wanting to be apart again. Their minds were dizzy with joy, relief, love. Both flushed, panting, aroused, and…

"Okay, Okay, Stand back from each other, each to his corner," ordered Tony, entered the flat, knowing that the room's temperature would rise too much if it took a little longer. 

"Stark, you couldn't be more untimely," grunted Everett, throwing him a murderous look that didn't scare the billionaire in the least, who chuckled, mockingly, though happy that those two fools would finally be able to confess their feelings.

"In dreams, Strange?" he teased. 

"In dreams, Roy Orbison, RCA Studio B in Nashville, January 4, 1963". 

He glanced sidelong at Everett, his lips red from the kiss, his pupils slightly dilated, just as he should have been. When their glances met, both of them burst into a silly chuckle. 

"We have to get to the Sanctum urgently," Stephen muttered. 

"Why?" Wong asked. "Nothing is happening in New York. 

Everett smiled mischievously at the blush that filled Stephen's cheeks as he said, "You go to New York. We will go to London Sanctum". 

"Don't worry," Everett intervened when the bookseller opened his mouth to protest, "The guardian of the Sanctum of London will keep you company at once." 

Wong shook his head amidst the others' chuckles.

"I know you're not in for long goodbyes," John smiled, winking at Everett, "but we wanted to thank you. I still don't quite understand what happened, but thank you for your help, from both of us," he turned to Sherlock, who stood behind him with his hands behind his back.

Sherlock looked at Strange, grateful. He didn't say goodbye because he didn't know how to express his gratitude to Strange for everything he had done, for how his life had changed, for the gift he had given him of being with John. 

"I know," mouthed Stephen, and the detective smiled slightly. 

"Come on, all passengers bound for New York, follow me," announced Wong, opening a portal leading to the Avengers Facilities. 

Peter approached John and hugged him. John hugged him back hard. 

"Thank you for everything," murmured John. "You've been really brave. Come and see us whenever you want". 

Peter smiled proudly and looked at Tony, who nodded, bursting with pride as well. 

"Thanks to you. You've been amazing. But next time I'll skip tea". 

John laughed loudly, and they continued to hug for a few minutes. 

"Well, Batman, I must say it was a pleasure at the end," smiled Tony, reaching out to Sherlock. 

The detective looked at him for a few seconds and finally shook his hand, smirking. 

"A pleasure, I don't know. Funny, yes", he said gratefully. 

Tony laughed out loud and walked away, leaving Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and Steve to say goodbye to him. 

Everett turned to Thor. 

"I would never have said you were a matchmaker." 

"Say that again, and I'll make you eat Stormbreak, Ross," he threatened, brandishing it. Then he smiled broadly and hugged him, clapping hard his back. 

"Hey, what about Lestrade and Mycroft?" asked John when they had said goodbye. 

"They went to my brother's house, to explore his... pinkies," answered Sherlock, mockingly, and the others laughed. 

"You made such a mess with the red thread, Strange," scowled an amused Wong. 

Soon the flat was empty. Sherlock and John looked at each other. 

"Do you know what I'm thinking about now?" asked John, approaching and kissing Sherlock. 

"On a wide range of naughty and pleasurable possibilities." 

"Smart bow. Starting with a relaxing bath", he said, walking to the bath. 

"I follow you without hesitation." 

"And on enjoying days on our own, no cases, no time travel, no fuss, just you and me." 

"Doctor Watson, you are a genius." 

They both chukled as they entered the bathroom. 

*********

The next morning, John awoke with a start when a troubled Mrs. Hudson entered their bedroom. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, quickly covering himself and a sleeping Sherlock with the sheet, "What's wrong?".

"What have you done?" asked the distressed landlady. 

"We?" he turned to Sherlock, who woke up and was looking at Mrs. Hudson. 

Mrs. Hudson pointed to the window. John got up, opened it and almost had a heart attack when he saw thousands of journalists gathered at their door. When they saw him, they raised their microphones and began to bombard him with questions. 

"What the hell?

"Joooooohn!" Sherlock's shocked scream made him turn around, while the detective's phone ringed without pause.

On the doctor's laptop, the detective uploaded John's blog. On it, presiding over the post he wrote with Peter, their photo with the Avengers. He remembered then that he gave Peter the passwords to respond to the comments, and he seemed to think that there was no better cherry on top of their article than the photo. 

"That kid is a genius," chuckled Sherlock. 

John puzzled. He thought Sherlock would go crazy. He hated having journalists hovering outside their door, chasing them every time they came in or out. 

"Why? 

He pointed to Mycroft, who, in the photo, was holding Lestrade's hand. He understood Sherlock's amusement. Their relationship had been made public much earlier than he would have liked, to Lestrade's happiness and Mycroft would not appear on Baker Street until the journalists forgot about it, to Sherlock's delight. 

"God," he mused before bursting into laughter, accompanied by the detective. 

He went back to bed and sat astride Sherlock.

"I have the impression that we won't be able to leave the flat for long" he bent down and kissed him on the lips "very much" new kiss on the chin "long," he mused, kissing him on the neck.

Sherlock moaned softly. 

"God, I love the Avengers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed it. Kudos and comments are always welcome😊  
>    
> In other versions of the legend of the red thread of destiny, it is tied to the ankle, but we liked the idea of the little finger more, because of the artery that goes directly to the heart. More romantic😍
> 
> Here you can listen to Roy Orbison's song [In Dreams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oqaW-qeBQeo)  
> We thought Doctor Strande would like it  
> 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments.  
> We hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!


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